Misconceptions
by Powerof923
Summary: "Dyra you cannot ignore this anymore than I can" voice beseeching as his fingers traced the back of my arms, breath tickling my neck. And I felt it, knew that he was right in the depth of my very being, no matter how little sense it made, no matter how much I'd said I hated him. Two worlds collide. Prejudices explode. In the shadow of war can new love thrive? Slow burn, Jaime/OC.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 _– Dyra Karvendeesh_

Dyra hated the rain, so it was fortunate for her that the city of Dalian had negligible precipitation. It wasn't so much the actual process of rain that bothered her, more so the way her light linen clothes would plaster themselves to her skin, rendering any minute movement unbearable. But on that late summer morning, the sun cresting in the sky, it may have well rained for the amount she had perspired. As she wound her way through the narrow streets of Dalian's old town, she grumbled to herself, indulging her bitterness in self-pity before she appeared in the auction crowds. If she wanted any hope of walking away with the amount of livestock she required for later she needed to save every last ounce of her waning patience. Pulling the makeshift hood further over her head, she kept her head down and continued meandering through the crowds which were flowing thick; today was market day after all and whilst shops sold similar produce week round, everyone knew that the market held the freshest (not to mention the cheapest) food.

The further Dyra travelled, the more she felt the perpetual pain in her limbs and chest worsen. There was a time when the trek across the city wouldn't have raised her heart beat, but that was long ago and now it only served as an acrid reminder of how debilitated she was compared to her former self. As if her own memories were not enough, the pain served as a constant physical sign of everything that she'd suffered, events that no amount of time could dull.

Feeling his eyes on her shoulder, she took a sweeping glance behind her. Sure enough Vyan was following her, ever mindful of her strict instructions to remain at least 15 feet away so as not to draw attention; there were only a select few women in Dalian who were protected by a member of the High Wardens and right now she was trying to remain as anonymous as possible. Market day was one of the few times of the week when she was simply left alone and they were precious hours that she looked forward to. Solitude was so hard to come by in the Daleen Palace and as she aged she simply desired nothing more, life was so much easier when she was alone. If any of her subjects realised it was her Vyan was following, it would not take long for her shoddy disguise to be revealed. Vyan would usually protest and remind her it was harder to defend her when she was so far away. One sharp glare and a subtle gesture to the concealed dagger she kept on her hip was enough to remind him just who it was he was guarding. His mere presence had always been more of a precautionary measure, and less of a necessity. The warden saw her watching him and gave her a short nod. He accepted her desire for inconspicuousness and chose to respect her wishes, even if he could not understand them. And it was for this reason that he was the one who accompanied her every week.

She knew, even without looking when she was approaching the Forum as the smell of spices, livestock and flowers punctuated the heady air around her, ridding it of the usual smell of grime and smoke. She continued to follow the crowds swarming, wincing whenever anyone elbowed her out of the way. Gritting her teeth to bite down the sense of self-entitlement she'd grown into, she paused to take in the looming domed forum before her.

"7 bullocks," she muttered to herself and Vyan who'd drawn up alongside her "it doesn't matter what vegetables but that and eight sacks of potatoes should keep them all going throughout the next few days." An imperceptible nod and he was back amongst the crowd. Readying herself to face the packed halls, she soldiered on in the direction of the main ring. The high temperatures had done little to deter people from witnessing the auction taking place, and so Dyra had to fight her way to get towards the front of the ring. She received a few odd looks from those she elbowed out of the way, supposing that even with the rough linen trousers and plain chemise she wore, there was something about her; the cavalier tilt of her jaw, the impatiently raised brow, the confidence of her gait that was unfitting of the guise she donned. Such mismatched mannerisms in the simple outfit she wore when venturing into the public would always cause the more eagle eyed of her people to take a second glance.

As she approached the ropes that separated the crowds from the sand laden ring she looked up at the expansive glass dome that covered the Forum. What was designed to aerate the hall and maximise the amount of light within, now only served to trap heat, baking the crowds in a room with minimal shade. She supposed when empty the dome made the room rather alluring but for now she resented it. The rest of the Forum was much more functional; high open arches on all sides meant stall holders and agricultural farmers could easily load and unload their goods when the market opened. Despite being built much more practically and simply than any other building in Dalian there was a grandiose beauty in the sheer magnitude of it. Dyra had often mused how right it was that the Forum, which formed the central hub of social and economic activity for so many city residents, was one of its nicest buildings. It felt appropriate that there should be a building as beautiful as this that belonged to them, given that they made up most of the people living in Dalian.

No sooner had she looked up than the raucous chatter around her increased in volume as the first group of heifers were lead into the ring and the auctioneer took his place on the podium. Dyra readied her hand on the wallet in her breast pocket. And so the weekly battle once again commenced …

* * *

The boy in front of her was taking a painstaking length of time to count out the money she had given him in exchange for her purchases. She had previously been rather pleased with herself. Seven bulls – she made sure never to buy heifers, they were far too valuable to be led straight to the slaughterhouse – all well past their prime but not so old that they had become all bone and no meat. The price hadn't been too bad either and she come away with coins to spare. But now as the boy took an eternity to slowly count each individual coin she could feel whatever satisfaction she'd had slipping away again. It had been a long four hours waiting for the right cattle to come through into the ring; she didn't want to take too prize a cow, her people deserved the chance to buy those – it was after all their livelihood depending on it. Exasperated, her finger twitched in agitation against her folded arm and her big toe started to tap against the limestone floor. Almost as if sensing her irritation, the boy dropped the bag of coins he was counting and fumbled to gather its scattered contents. Dyra tried hard not to openly sigh. She already had such limited time in the city unguarded, she should have been enjoying it rather than wasting it by watching someone count out what she already knew to be the correct amount of gold. The sound of rapid steps approaching made her look up to see Vyan, tugging a cart laden with burlap sacks of potatoes, root vegetables and peppers behind him. Her lips quirked at the corner and her head gave a satisfied nod which was rewarded a grin of his own. He held out a bag of coins as he approached her,

"Still some left, we can put them towards next week Your –" Dyra's quick glare cut him off before he blew her cover in the final hour of her mission. Vyan gave her a sheepish grin as his only form of apology before turning towards the boy in front of her.

"You'll find it's all correct boy. She never makes mistakes when it comes to money," the Warden spoke sharply, sensing his mistress' annoyance. The farmboy's cheeks flamed a deep red hue from embarrassment and Dyra felt some of her irritation dissipate. With a hand on Vyan's arm she turned to him.

"Your first time here?" she asked more gently. The boy, sensing she was now less inclined to slapping something, nodded a quick response.

"I don't wanna get fired madam," his Khersonian accent thick "my family can't afford to have one less child earning their way." Dyra nodded more sympathetically before tossing another two gold coins from the bag Vyan had produced.

"For your troubles," she said quickly hoping her more formal accent would not give her away, though with Vyan standing so close, if the boy couldn't tell she was nobility then he was even more simple minded than she'd begun to assume. Sarcastically reminding herself to go over the Khersoni literacy rates when she returned to the Daleen Palace, she made a move to grab the rope from which the seven bullocks were strung to. The young farmboy looked at her with wide eyes

"You can't carry them all miss, they'll drag you through the streets," he said reaching to stop her. Fed up of keeping the pretence any longer, Dyra looked into his panicked eyes before removing her hood several inches. The boys mouth opened and his face paled.

"I'd like to see them try," Dyra said her lips quirking into a smirk.

"Your Excellency I-I-I'm so sorry, I mean … I d-didn't mean to –"

"You are not the first, and you will not be the last I have no doubt," she grumbled before retaking the rope. With a quick glance at Vyan and a final nod at the poor boy - who now stood dumbstruck in the Forum's south exit unable to comprehend just who he'd sold seven cows to – Dyra headed up towards the periphery walkway slowly coaxing the cattle to follow. When her back was turned to both men, she afforded herself the luxury of wincing at the jolting pain that had run up through her arm when she'd yanked on the rope. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to remove any hint of distress from her face, she did not need to give Vyan anymore cause for concern. Her freedom had already been justifiably limited enough by Hamïd and she did not need it reducing even more.

* * *

You would be forgiven for thinking that Dalian was a beautiful ancient city and nothing more – a jewel remained trapped in the realms of times long gone. Dalian was the historic command centre for the Khersoni Province and its people had taken pride in keeping its appearance up to date with its status. And certainly the dome tipped spires, the teardrop shaped windows and the limestone walls would commend this initial impression. Even the poorer districts were still picturesque, the flat roofs leaving way to gardens and makeshift dining tables by those wishing to maximise every last inch of their property. The staggering judicial buildings and the temples were covered in ancient paintings, murals and mosaics depicting everything from the creation of Sothoryos to the founding of the Senate, from the Freedom Wars to the construction of Dalian itself. As the city expanded so did the decoration and piece by piece it was becoming a living breathing work of art. The most beautiful building in Dalian was unmistakingly the Daleen Palace. As a building, the palace had clearly been designed to favour looks over practicality; thin spires curved to dizzying heights among the great halls and throne room and exposed arches meant that should the city ever come under attack, it would seem easily assailable. And yet, its position at the summit of the Daleen Mound, and the two 30 foot guarded walls which circumvented it's gardens meant that (despite its architecture leaving it woefully under equipped for a siege) the Daleen Palace had never once succumbed to foreign invaders in all of its 1200 year existence.

And in this way the Palace was a perfect reflection of the city as a whole. What seemed ostentatiously impractical actually hid a labyrinth of ingenious design, brought about by years of progressive planning and curated by minds centuries ahead of their time. The judicial buildings and Dalian's legal system were the first of their kind in the world, it's council one of the largest and diverse in Sothoryos, even the sewage system was implemented nearly two thousand years previously, after High Duke Alakh had famously complained he 'could no longer endure the rotting stench of fermenting shit.' The city may have appeared ancient but the reality was antithetical. The oil the region mined had made Khersoni rich, and the peace Sothoryos had luxuriously enjoyed had made Dalian a city truly ahead of its time.

* * *

Dyra had not moved more than 100 yards before Vyan caught up with her, causing the bulls to skitter anxiously before resting his hand on her shoulders. She cast her eyes to his hand pointedly before he quickly removed it from her. He may have been closer to her than most but it was still frowned upon for people of low birth to touch High Duchesses, and Dyra was tired of allowing herself to blur the line between master and servant – the Gods knew she had done it enough in her life, and each time it had left her more and more broken when they departed.

"What is it?" she asked refusing to look at him or lessen her pace and instead choosing to focus on a merchant selling glass lanterns to a little girl.

"I'll take them from you, Your Excellency," Vyan requested offering his hand for the cattle, once they were within 100 yards of the slaughter house. She sighed, she should have known that she would not be permitted to take them alone. Vyan knew when she tried to cover how much physical pain she was in. He'd afforded her the luxury of keeping up appearances of strength in front of the farm boy, but now eyes were no longer following them he returned to the over protective persona he was known for. Whilst she understood his need to alleviate her of any gripe she may have with her body, there was a masochistic tendency in her that liked the ache. Sometimes she desired nothing more than to return to the training grounds in the palace, pick up a sword or, even better, a crossbow, and slice and shoot and sweat and _feel_. The knowledge that the throbs that now consumed her once were never there at all, were a form of guilty torture forged in the very deepest pits of self-loathing. She deserved whatever torment it gave her.

She stopped herself from resisting and thought about the final part of her own personal mission for the day. She would never be able to complete it if Vyan remained with her. Perhaps his own vigilance would allow her the solitude she required. So, halting her initial sarcastic retort, she handed the reins over to him.

"You know where to take them afterwards?" She could see Vyan wondering why she was asking him this, still under the impression she would follow obligingly.

"I believe so, Your Excellency," came the quick response "If I remember correctly, you said you wanted the food dispersed among the orphanages."

Dyra gave a quick hum of approval. She used to deliver the food herself, relished in it even, it had helped boost morale among Dalian's people and worked to forge an undying loyalty between monarch and people. Now, the memories were tainted and she no longer had the heart or the patience to deal with the thankful crowds. There was nothing to be thankful for, she was just doing her duty. And yet despite her bitterness, she could never quite make herself kick the habit of going to The Forum and purchasing the food herself, at least that way she still had some personal influence over the food delivery.

"Good, I shall make my own way back to the Palace then," she said quickly. "Get one of the workers here to assist you with the food. I imagine you'll need to load it into a cart, there's a fair amount."

Vyan started to splutter his protests but was quickly shut off by her stare.

"Vyan, how long has it been?" He shuffled uncomfortably.

"Nearly 200 years Your Excellency? I could not say," he mumbled, looking down at his shoes sheepishly.

"203," she levelled his gaze. "Most High Dukes or Duchesses die within a year of something ... something like that. I am not going to do anything stupid," she hissed. It was a lie, she knew that, and it hurt that she had to lie to someone who placed so much trust within her. But this was necessary. She had had enough of everything and everyone. She was tired of everyone treating her like fractured glass, waiting for the moment the cracks in her façade would give out and she would cease to be. Were they right to? Of course. But she could no longer have them believing something was still wrong with her, it would make the plan so much more difficult.

"At some point you must all acknowledge that if I was going to try something, I would have done it by now."

"I understand, Your Excellency,"

"Good." She nodded at Vyan and departed, feeling his eagle like eyes burn through her back and follow her movement through the crowds, watching to see if she walked towards the Palace like she said she would. She rounded the corner as if to head towards the incline up the Daleen Mound before stopping and leaning against the wall. Counting to 100 she hesitantly peered round the corner. Vyan, was still there but was now occupied with trying to get the extensive collection of food to its destination. Ducking into an alleyway, Dyra removed her hood before turning the cloak inside out to reveal a different colour. Checking the streets left and right again she began walking in the opposite direction to where she had set off.

* * *

The tavern was just as she remembered when she'd first ventured there. Situated in one of the less desirable parts of the city, the building was old and it's interior lined with exposed sandstone brickwork. The steps that lead up its six floors were uneven, worn down over decades of people running up and down them. Upon entering she was bombarded by aromas of spiced pork, pickled vegetables and the sticky humidity of steamed rice; her stomach rumbled. Dyra had yet to eat that day and now regret at not purchasing fruit at the Forum was clouding her thoughts.

Peering around at the heaving tables of people appreciating cold drinks and hearty food, her eyes found him in the back corner of the pub, hair covered by a strip of linen, face obscured from view by the tankard of ale resting on the table. Restraining herself from rolling her eyes, at his 'covert' choice of location, she weaved her way between throngs of people enjoying the shade from the blistering sun outside, before settling down in the chair opposite.

"I thought Your Excellency would appreciate discretion," his low voice wheezed out, a side effect of a lifetime of smoking the tobacco grown by the deserts in Khersoni.

"And this is your understanding of discretion," Dyra seethed "A heaving pub on market day?" she fought to withhold her voice from being too loud. The last thing they needed was to draw more attention.

"Sometimes the busiest of crowds are the best place to hide," he responded nonchalantly

"Not when you have my face," Dyra was close to spitting. The man simply responded with an arrogant tilt and nod of his head.

"Perhaps."

There was a long, pregnated pause as Dyra waited for him to elaborate. When it became clear he was to remain silent, she decided to be more blunt.

"The message said you had news on the search. What has happened? Has any of the igneonite been found?"

"We believe so."

Her heart stopped. So there was some still in Khersoni. Most of Sothoryosi igneonite could be found in The Trove and there alone. It used to be widely accessible, but now given the circumstances it was prohibited.

"Well? I don't have time! Give me what you have found and you shall be compensated," impatience colouring her tone, Dyra could feel a glimmer of hope within her for the first time in 203 years. This was more than she could have ever asked for. But her hope was dashed before it had much chance to blossom, as the man lifted his head enough to look her in the eyes. It was just as unsettling as it had been the first time she had properly seen him. The left side of his face was littered with scars, as if someone at one point had been content to use him as a human training dummy and even though she knew to expect it, the sheer brutality of his wounds caught her off guard. But there was an aura besides the startling facial scars that filled the pit of her stomach with a sense of unease. The way his eyes seemed to mock her as he noticed her losing hope subtly hinted at the slightly sadistic nature she had come to expect from him, those thin dry lip curving into a smile caught somewhere between a sneer and snarl. The face painted a picture of a man who delighted in sheer brute force and had lived his life accordingly. He would never harm her, that much she knew, but she was certain that that was because he'd seen her use the dagger on her hip. Had she been another ordinary woman, the situation would most likely be very different. Not for the first time she swore at herself for placing such a problematic task in his hands. But dark deeds drew in dark people, and she would be even more a fool if she believed that anyone virtuous would help her find the igneonite.

"I left as soon as we got some girl," the man jeered "I ain't hangin' around what with the wardens patrolling. Rode four days to get here so it wouldn't be discovered. It's being forged as we speak." He said.

"How long?"

"Well that depends on my compensation now, don't it?"

Dyra sighed. This was going to be difficult.

"I can get you the money instantly should you need it but until the igneonite is in my hands you will receive no more than half the amount we agreed. I am not so stupid as to pay you the full amount without having my purchase with me." The man gritted his teeth in annoyance. He leaned back, his loose shirt rising up to reveal the muzzle of an old, battered pistol.

"Best not get on my wrong side girl, you'll give me all the money now," the man mumbled, with a menace almost too lackadaisical to be taken seriously. Dyra released another sigh.

"You really do not want to do this," she whispered drawing her features into the most imperious expression she could manage. The sound of a gun cocking, was the only response she received.

A single frame in time had not yet passed before the man felt the dagger piercing the linen at his crotch. It seemed as if the girl had not even moved; as if time had erased the 5 seconds it should have taken her to draw her weapon from her hip and press it against his groin from history.

Impossible. Inconceivable.

And yet, there it was. And there was she, daring him to even breathe.

"Using magic eh, Karvendeesh," the man mumbled. He glanced below the table to the dagger in her hand. "You fight dirty, Your _Excellency"_ before his eyes landed on the table where his own gun now lay, cocked and pointing at his chest.

"Very dirty." Dyra's skin crawled, the allusion to soiling the reputation she should be maintaining hitting her harder than she would have cared to admit. Implications of how low she'd sunk always grated on her, mocking the ideals that she used to prize and used to uphold.

"It would seem we are now in agreement. The first half of the money is yours," she spoke slowly, uncaringly, determined that all the man should see was her unaffected gaze. Carefully she pressed the dagger into his crotch for a second longer before removing it all together and tossing him the bag of coins. Standing up to leave she gathered her dagger and readjusted the hood on her head.

"When it is complete, send me another message and I shall meet you." She curtly turned to depart.

"There's only one reason you'd want this," the man called after her, the taunting lilt to his speech a poor mask for his blatant curiosity "you sure it's the wisest choice?" Dyra hesitated, her gait faltered, her façade slipped. She wanted to say yes with every fibre of her body, but even she knew just what it would mean. Would it make her that much of a destructive being to go through with this? Every time she questioned her motives, her own selfishness would fight her conscience and win. This amount of suffering and desolation was too much. Straightening her shoulders she continued to walk away from the man. He did not deserve an answer, nor did she have one to give. You can't answer something you truly do not know.

* * *

Throwing open the doors to her room took effort. The minute Dyra had left the tavern, the gong of the High Temple had gone off. Remembering that she was already meant to be back at the Palace, and that Vyan would be at least halfway there by now, she had sprinted her way through the city, knocking over people, carts and the like leaving a string of chaos behind her – a metaphor that was not lost on her. She'd had to use the back stairwell to avoid running into people in the palace; a sprinting High Duchess would only raise questions. Staggering to the bed at the far side of the expansive suite, she clambered onto the comforter, lunging for the book on her bedside table and throwing it open to the first page she could find.

Footsteps grew in volume outside and the chamber door flew open to reveal a panting, sweaty Vyan. At the sight of her he seemed to visibly relax. She schooled herself to not breathe too heavily and to calm her expression so as to not appear over exerted.

"As I told you before Vyan," she teased "I am fine. It would seem your run was not required." Vyan took a moment to gather himself, though now he was evidently relieved to see she had followed through on what she had claimed she would do, for once. He let go of the chamber handle, wiped his palms on the trousers of the guard uniform and bowed once.

"Your Excellency, Hamïd has requested you join him in his solar. It seemed rather urgent," he said his voice now less breathy and returning to its usual rich timbre. Dyra furrowed her brows. He couldn't possibly know about her having people search for igneonite; she'd been covering her tracks for near on two centuries. No one would talk; she'd made sure of that. And he would never expect her to look for it within Khersoni when everyone knew the largest deposits were within The Trove. No this was about something else, and from the uncertainty on Vyan's face she was beginning to feel an anxious nausea settle in her throat.

"Of course," she said quickly nodding to dismiss him before standing and gathering herself into a somewhat more acceptable state of dress. Tossing the linen shawl she'd been using as a hood under her bed, and straightening out her trousers she began to make her way down the never ending corridors towards Hamïd's room. The golden sandstone walls of the Daleen Palace, were so heavily carved and painted, it was hard to make out the original rock walls underneath, each corridor more exquisite and elaborate than the last. And yet Dyra had passed by the statues and mosaics and murals so often that now it took real effort to appreciate them for their splendour. It was one of the reasons why she had had her own room stripped of colour and painted white; so that she never forgot to appreciate just how beautiful her home really was. As she approached the heavy silver birch door that led to Hamïd's solar she hesitated before knocking. The journey to his chambers had only served to heighten the unsettling feeling she had and whilst she was sure it was none of her doing, it did not mean that the news was pleasant. Without waiting for an invitation she heaved the solid door open and entered the room.

Hamïd's sinewy back was turned to her but upon her entering he turned around. As he took in her clothes and uncommonly dishevelled appearance his face set out into a tentative smile.

"You went to The Forum?" he asked, voice deep and yet simultaneously soft, and she nodded as a quick response. "Good. That's really good …" he said deep in thought. "Who received the food this time?" Dyra allowed a hesitant smile of her own to slip through her sense of unease.

"Most of the orphanages in the city residential areas," she said and took pleasure in seeing Hamïd's face light up with a smile. As an orphan himself before he'd become a High Duke, it gave him contentment to go out of his way to help those whose position he'd been in but whose would never be given the opportunities he had been afforded. Whenever Dyra did the same it never ceased to put a beam on his face at her consideration.

Hamïd's smile was infectious. Hamïd himself was infectious. Born from next to nothing, he had charmed his way through most of life using his wit, intelligence and strikingly handsome looks to the benefit of not only himself but other's too. Fiercely protective of those he held close, his loyalty was difficult to be won but once gained near impossible to lose. Hamïd was everything Dyra could have wanted in a little brother and over a startlingly short period of time, for someone so guarded, that was what he had become to her. They may not share the same blood but they were the same heart, the same soul, both rulers of the same province with the same priorities and ambitions. Time had tamed his vivaciousness to a gentle buzz that was as joyous to be a part of as his booming laugh was to hear, and several lifetimes of success had combined with a sharp eye for reading people to make an unmatched, indomitable confidence that was hard not to get swept up in. When mixed with his high aristocratic cheekbones, unusually large Khersonian eyes and a full mouth it was no wonder Hamïd had always had women and men chasing after him.

"It's good that you're continuing to go to The Forum on market day Dy," he said gently "It makes me happy when you continue habits like that."

"I'd continue more of my old habits, if I wasn't so closely guarded all the time," she said with perhaps more bite than she had meant to. The sinking feeling had her on edge and that brought out her more guarded, hostile side. Hamïd had the decency to look ashamed before turning her and looking her in the eyes.

"You know why I do it," he said in a calm voice that did little to hide the desperation lurking beneath. Dyra gave a long exhale.

"I do," she said bitterly. "It's just it's another reminder." Hamïd frowned before turning back to the massive ebony table in the centre of his solar. Reaching towards a stack of papers he picked up a single envelope before turning to her, his expression grave and Dyra felt the sickening feeling reach a dizzying pulse. He held up the letter and with a hesitant look at her he began explaining.

"It's from Isabeth," Dyra felt confused. What on earth would the Ural's have discovered that gave such cause for concern?

"She's called an immediate Council meeting in the Core for us all. The Trove Warden's received a message from our spy in Pentos. He says there's been disturbing stories coming from Westeros." Dyra's confusion peaked even more. Sothoryos had not been concerned with anything other than itself for millennia, and rightly to if history was anything to go by, they'd spent nearly three centuries at one point carving themselves out of Westerosi and Essosi history. Staying out of the way of the wars fought there had helped maintain peace at home. There was no reason to get involved, so why now?

"Dyra," Hamïd's voice broke her out of her reverie "they think _it's_ happening again. We leave tonight."

The nausea returned at such force that Dyra collapsed to her knees and retched on the bile in her empty stomach.

* * *

 **So there we are first chapter! Hopefully you all have lots of questions that I look forward to answering (in time!). I hope you enjoyed it, please like and leave a comment, and I'll see you all soon x**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – _Dyra Karvendeesh_

For how long she had been sitting there on the silk recliner in her room, she was not sure. After retching in Hamïd's solar, she had staggered out of the room, ignoring the concerned cries he shouted after her and made her way unsteadily back to her own chambers before collapsing into the chair she now occupied. Her mind lapsed in and out of focus, phasing from a turbulent chaos of unbidden panic before narrowing to focus on those words that had fallen so languidly from Hamïd's lips:

 _It's happening again. It's happening again._

 _Again._

His reluctance to denounce 'it' by name had given her clarity as to what he was referring to; the Others, the White Walkers. If she had not grown so bitter over the years then perhaps she would have dismissed him for a liar or maybe been unable to conceive the idea that the living dead had returned to the Known World. Yet, she had changed, and the Dyra that lived now knew from the grim set of Hamïd's jaw, the sweaty pallor of his cheeks and the quiver of his fingers that he was undoubtedly telling the truth. Besides, no one in Sothoryos joked about the White Walkers. The Others were beings of corporeal anger, living with no other intention than to ruthlessly slaughter every man, woman and child in their wake – that was after all the original purpose behind their creation. Dyra felt the bile rise again in her throat at the thought and her panic at heaving again sent her thoughts back into deranged madness. Her back was beginning to ache from the strain of sitting as straight as a ramrod for so long but she ceased to notice, so scared by the turn the day had taken.

The sun had long since subsided before Dyra was pulled from her thoughts of ice monsters and history. In truth, she could have sat there easily for hours more, days more even, if only it meant she would never have to leave. It was the temperature that alerted her to the hour, more so than the sky plunging into an inky obsidian. As the heat left the city, and thus the palace, she felt the gooseflesh on her arm pricking and an involuntary shiver broke the painstaking cycle of her thoughts. Her eyes refocused again on several large leather cases that lay on her bed, fully packed and ready to leave. She'd been so engrossed in her own thoughts she had not even realized that her maids had entered her chambers, packed and left. It was rare that she could be caught so unawares but this new information had caught every part of her off guard.

 _I'm not coming back_

She knew it for a certainty. If the Others were back then The Assembly would reel out her prophecy. And once they had done that, well she might as well kiss goodbye to her chambers, to the Palace and to Khersoni full stop. It would be far more painfully practical to prepare herself for the imminent reality that would greet her at Westeros' coastline. Unbidden tears started to flow from her eyes as she took one last long around the chambers that had been hers over 4 centuries. It may have served as a glorified prison as of late but it was still her home and she was petrified of what lay in wait beyond the Khersoni borders.

 _We leave tonight._

Her mind froze again in despair as she remembered what she had been up to during the day. The Assembly would be meeting perchance within the next four days, depending on how soon everyone could congregate. And if they came to the decision that she knew they would …

There was not a moment to lose, she had thought she had all the time in the world to escape this prison – that is what she was cruelly promised after all - maybe there was a chance she could still find freedom instead of meeting a more desolate fate. She had worked this hard to get a hold of the igneonite, she would not miss the chance now; not for Hamïd, not for Vyan, not even for White Walkers. For the first time in hours, Dyra hastily stood up and walked swiftly over to the escritoire in the corner of her room. The letter was written with scribbled fervour on a scrap of old paper before being tucked into the folds of her skirts as she exited the room and headed to the menagerie. If she had not been so stricken with panic she might have been more concerned with how she appeared to those passing by. As it was, most within the palace were now aware of the imminent departure of Hamïd and Dyra, and instead mistakenly placed this knowledge as the sole cause for her frightened consternation. Dyra herself was so focused now on getting the letter to the smuggler she had only just met with, that she did not even notice that she was not alone. She crossed the courtyard, the palm trees now swaying in the more temperate early night breeze and threw open the door that led to the attic room where the carrier birds were located. She was thoroughly winded by the time she had sped up the seemingly eternal staircase, spotted a raven in the corner of the menagerie, fixed the letter to its leathery talon and sent the bird on its way before collapsing on the floor for the second time that evening to regather her breath. Only time would tell now if he would come and with that morbid thought, she returned to her chambers to gather herself.

* * *

"I did not think you would make it," she had whispered, half fearful she would be caught. It was rare she chose to wander the castle late into the night, and so she'd been racked with near-dizzying paranoia as she'd exited her chambers and made her way swiftly down hallway after hallway to the serving entrance. Such meticulous planning had been taken to ensure that if she was stopped by any of the Palace guards, the lie would roll off her tongue easily. _I'm taking one last glimpse of my home before it is ripped from me for months on end._ Or words to that effect, she may or may not be paraphrasing. 'Home' was a very liberal word to describe the Daleen Palace now, its walls more or less constituting a grandiose cell. It should bother her more she thought in retrospect, that something she once considered an extension of her now appeared so empty and cold, but this was what her 'home' had become and there was little she could do to change that. The irony of any lie she told would be lost on the servants though, they did not know her well enough to see through her fibs, let alone appreciate the sarcasm behind them. Even her clothing reflected her lie, such was its importance - she could not afford any part of it to be uncovered. The silk slippers, embroidered with violets would become near ruined by the dust and grime that coated the streets outside, but they left not even a whisper of a noise in the Palace corridors and no one would suspect her of leaving the grounds whilst dressed in her nightgown and slippers. She had contemplated a cloak, to at least retain some form of decency but her anxiousness had prevailed and fear of the questions it would raise had led her to leave it behind. She was only meeting one man, with the Lord's mercy she could forgo her modesty just this once if only to see her plan succeed.

Leaning against the outer Palace wall, opposite the currently closed butchers she let out the shaky breath she had kept sucked in. The nightly breeze, though balmy in the summer air, was still strong enough to plaster the thin shift against her hips and slender legs. Suddenly the idea of covertness was a lot less appealing. Without four Palace walls and numerous guards – no matter how inconvenient they could be – she suddenly felt more exposed than if she had wandered the gardens as naked as her nameday. Her ears pricked at the sound of raucous, drunken laughter no more than two streets away. Involuntarily she folded her arms and shrunk in on herself in a vain attempt to remain inconspicuous, not that it would have worked, she was the only person standing in the street and the moonlight directly above offered little respite from its ghostly glow. They had no reason to walk towards the palace but that did not stop her from praying to whatever deity was listening that they came no closer. The High Duchess of Khersoni had not made an official visit outside of the Daleen Palace in decades so there was little chance of them recognising her. And she had chosen to leave her chambers without the welcome protection of her usual knife; a move which had once seemed intellectual in case the servants saw it yet now rendered her speechless at her own stupidity. She was more than capable of defending herself without it but an unarmed girl dressed in nothing but her nightgown lurking outside the walls of the Palace and beating would be attackers into oblivion? It would not take long for such a preposterous story to spread throughout the city and she did not need such tall tales reaching Hamïd or Sakhi's inquisitive ears. It was just as she was cursing herself for ever getting into this mess, that she heard the footsteps and then upon looking recognized the face of the smuggler.

His appearance was no different from earlier; the same wicked smirk, the same harsh set of his eyes, yet now he was even less jovial than before. The way his heavy boots, hard-worn and supple, stomped across the smoothed pavestones and his arms not so much swung as pumped by his sides left her with little doubt that he was impassioned.

"And why is that Your _Excellency_ ," he seethed, saliva flying from his mouth "Because you sent me a message in the daytime despite knowing the consequences if it was checked, which is let's face it highly likely," she resisted the urge to lower her eyes in shame "or perhaps because the city teems with guards at this hour?" He loomed before her now, his black eyes boring into hers shamelessly. "Or perhaps it is because you were just anxious to be rid of me and to have this job finished under your own command." She stood her ground but his vehement glare was getting harder to keep. She knew just how much she had risked his life, sending him the message out of turn, and yet she had done it anyway. She was that desperate; if the Others were here and she was to travel to the Core, Dyra knew that she was out of time – something which earlier today she had had an eternal abundance of.

"You may be near on immortal Your Excellency, but I'm not, and I don't intend to spend my days rotting in prison 'cos of your stupidity."

The emotions that had been tearing through her finally broke her perfect mask of external indifference. The slap came so quickly she almost heard it before she realized what she had done and felt the sharp sting in her palm. For what it was worth the smuggler had ceased to continue his verbal assault on her and her character, and was now staring at her, most likely stunned that a woman had slapped him, regardless of societal rank.

"Do you think I would have risked my one chance at freedom on a single message if I had not been forced to?" she responded in full "this was a matter of the utmost urgency."

"And what could possibly warrant such a pointless gamble?"

"I'm leaving Dalian." She said it so plainly, it was the first time she had acknowledged it aloud, and the reality of it sent a biting shiver down her spine. She saw his face morph from anger to disbelieving confusion.

"But you haven't left the city in – "

"I'm leaving Khersoni for the Core. And I don't know when or if I'll be returning," she said calmly, too calmly when one compared it to the turmoil inside. He was right, she hadn't left Dalian in two centuries and she hadn't left her province of Khersoni in even longer. The thought of watching everything she knew fade away from her was near on terrifying, and that was without considering what it was she was leaving Khersoni for. She may not have considered any particular place her home as of recently, but the eastern province was all she knew and it was the closest thing she had to a safe location. She would never be happy, but at least she _knew_ here, it was a part of her just as it had been every other High Duchess. Dyra may not have desired to leave but she had no choice.

"How long until you leave?"

"A few hours. At best," she sighed "they may even be looking for me now." She saw the man swallow and his eyes close in exasperation. Dyra knew he did not particularly mourn the loss of her, more so the bag of gold that was meant to be his, unless he could uphold his end of the bargain, it would never materialize.

"I do not know how long I will be in The Core. But it will be a few days at least so they can fully prepare for my departure."

"Where are you heading afterwards, perhaps we can meet you – "

"Westeros."

"Westeros? Why the fuck would you go to Westeros?"

"It is none of your concern. No one has said out loud who is travelling or the destination but I already know. I have known for a long time that this journey was coming, I just never knew when."

The man sighed, he paced over to the Palace wall, turned around and slumped against it, his expression visibly downtrodden. The breeze that had ameliorated the night temperature, was gone leaving nothing but a hot, tepid air punctuated by the distant sounds of a city that was never quite asleep. They were both silent for some time before Dyra grew impatient yet again.

"Is there any way you can get the igneonite to me in The Core?"

"I don't know. It could work. The mine where we found it is 2 miles south of Azram, by the border. It's being forged there. You're taking the conveyor, yeah?" she nodded "if I can get a raven to the men there, one could meet you at the border with it." He looked up at her, once again serious now there was a semblance of a plan in place. "But you'll have to pay me double. I ain't risking my neck like this for the same price as before"

Dyra sighed, she knew it would come to this, it was only to be expected now that she was asking above and beyond what he had been paid to do previously. She'd expected to find herself vehemently denying him such an avaricious demand, if only because she could not tolerate greed driven ambition. And yet, here she stood, scared and desperate, nodding absentmindedly to the request. She could not even find it within herself to feel shame at how little a fight she had put up, this is what she had become, a mere shell of the person she once was.

"You shall have double," she quietly acknowledged after a moment of waiting, "it must be ready by the time I reach The Core." He started to grin but then stopped in shock as they heard guards circumventing the palace walls above. Dyra's heart lodged itself in her throat upon seeing two men standing directly 30 feet above them. Their distant chatter was barely audible but they only need look down at the floor to see the both of them. What were they doing out of the watchtowers? They never left. Or at least they were not supposed to. She'd often pitied the guards of the walls, there was no invading enemy coming to lay siege to the city or its palace, just like there hadn't been for centuries. And yet they still employed them to wander the walls in their black and silver uniform, daily and nightly. As the sound of the two men conversing became more and more distant, Dyra was knocked from her reverie. She looked down to see the smuggler staring at her imploringly. Realising that she was out of time she reached inside her nightgown to remove the bag of coins that had been tied around her neck and tucked away out of sight by her breasts. It had felt like a heavy weight resting there the entire time but she knew that when she left her chambers earlier that night she would have to pay him the full amount. She shoved the bag in his hand and without a word he turned to leave. Dyra grabbed his hand to prevent him, throwing an appropriate level of strength around her grip.

"How will you get it to me?" she said glaring at him.

"Don't worry about that Your Excellency," his wicked smirk returning "you'll get it by the time you're in The Core." And with that that he turned to leave her standing by the wall. The smuggler had not gone more than five paces before he turned back around to face her, all trace of dismay and hopelessness went now that he had his compensation. The moonlight cast a ghostly sheen to his scar-ridden face and did nothing to lessen the empty blackness in his eyes as he gave one final unsettling grin at her, his right arm raised in an odd mocking salute.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Karvendeesh." And with that, he turned and jogged silently away, before turning a corner and disappearing out of sight.

Dyra let out a long sigh, relieved that it had gone as smoothly as she had hoped. She began walking the lengthier way back to the other side of the Palace via the serving entrance using only the shadow ridden walls as cover from the guards. Her footsteps seemed to tread even more lightly than rain thanks to the absence of the gold around her neck. It had been bothering her the duration of the meeting, seemingly forming a beacon that called out to every thief in the night. Yet it was not the only thing that made her feel so much airier. Now that she had managed to ensure her own covert mission was still ongoing – despite the obstacles thrown in her way by Hamïd and the Others – there was a newfound optimism about her fate; for once again she now had certainty there was a way out. And nothing felt lighter than the certainty of escape.

* * *

It was rare Hamïd was not in a pleasant mood. Not that even a foul-tempered Hamïd was by any means difficult to deal with, but as he was generally so good-natured it was odd to find him quiet and out of sorts. Anyone else would have supposed it was due to the disturbing letter they had received two days previously as ever since then, a weight akin to a mountain had settled profoundly on the shoulders of every passenger on the conveyor. In truth, there were only three people who knew the true contents of the letter - herself, Hamïd and Sakhi, his consort – but it had not taken long for the servants, guards, and nobility in their Palace to recognize something was gravely wrong; anything less than a threat to the realm and they simply would not have moved Dyra away from Dalian. The previous hours as they travelled had been an excruciating blend of reassuring the company of soldiers, advisors, and servants who had joined them on their journey that everything was alright whilst all the while finding it harder to breathe in such a contained space. Dyra was sick of lying through her teeth, especially since for the first time in 203 years, her tepid, unconvincing answers were just as responsive as Hamïd's. Yes, everyone else would assume it was to do with the letter, but only she knew the truth. She had known him long enough to know that if Sakhi was here, Hamïd would be playing a game of cevasse, keeping morale up among them all and generally giving much more credible lies to their companions. But beautiful, sweet-natured Sakhi had been forced to remain in Dalian; there needed to be at least one Karvendeesh remaining there to oversee the day to day running of Khersoni. Their farewell had been the equivalent of drinking sour milk for her. Sakhi was the perfect equal to Hamïd; quiet and intelligent, she often was likened to his shadow for their ability to cling to each other whenever they could. Although less effervescent in person, she was soothing like honey and had an eternal patience to put up with his endless teasing. A former barrister before they met, she also possessed a quick wit to rival his jokes and the ability to read and understand others like no one Dyra had ever met. They had clung to each other on the Palace steps, Sakhi almost in tears at having to be left and Hamïd actually crying at being forced to leave her. They'd embraced so intimately that Dyra had felt obliged to look away lest she witnessed something that was not for her eyes. It _hurt_ physically and emotionally to see it.

Dyra sighed at the irony; the Lord had made them near on immortal but no true being was allowed to live forever, and so he had placed their greatest weakness in another human being. With every passing mile, she observed as Hamïd become more and more unsettled at the thought of his love drifting further away from him and shivered remembering the feeling. The ever-present dull throb in her body sharpened by her ribcage so suddenly she whimpered. Almost instantly she felt his restless eyes boring into her head. Cringing in on herself to will the pain to ebb away she muttered out an 'I'm fine' and forced herself to settle her pitying gaze elsewhere. The scenery out of the window had not changed much over the course of the last four hours. The first part of their journey had been undertaken in the early hours of the morning and the cover of darkness had not lent itself well to the usual jaw-dropping views of the lowlands. As the dawn had begun to break however, the carriage started its ascent up the plateau sides and they had been greeted with such a staggering view of the sun rising over Dalian that it had stolen Dyra's breath in her throat. It had been so long since she had seen her home from a distance that she had forgotten what a striking image it could conjure up but as the morning light illuminated the dizzying spires of the palace, and the steep relief of the city streets came into view she was reminded why it was renowned for its beauty. The Serpentine River, which flowed down the valley, passed the city's northern border and meandered its way into the Great Eastern Sea, gave credence to its name, its waters turned such a brilliant silver that it seemed to be a live snake writhing its way through the fertile lowlands. She'd looked as long as she could at it all; the sea, the sandstone buildings, the land, the river and felt a sickening, prophetic feeling of dread settle in her stomach as the last glimpse of her home was rolled out of view and wrenched away from her sight - for how long she did not know. She had turned back in her seat and nearly cried at the time.

Ever since then they had been greeted with the same monotonous grasslands, hour by hour, day after day. There was not much to see along these parts of Khersoni. The province itself was famous for its seemingly never-ending plains and they lived up to it. One could suppose that there was a certain beauty in their desolation; if you ignored the tracks for the conveyor, you could journey for miles without any other indication of civilization. And at this time of the season, the grass was just the right length that in the breeze it's leonine stalks swayed as if it were rippling water pulled by a tide. There was little wildlife within a mile either side of the tracks as most animals (both predator and prey, large and small) avoided the conveyor and it's wrought iron tracks like it was a plague. There was not much in the way of people either as the vast majority of cities, towns and ports were all situated on the coastline where the land was more fertile, water sources less scarce and the views more scenic. The only indication that there was any form of life out on the plateau was the occasional silhouette of oil mines on the horizon and the small mining villages that they provided employment for. Oil was Khersoni's main exportation product and its plateaus held them in abundance. They were no pretty sight to look at, but they had helped shape the province into the rich region it was now and so even in their ugliness, they commanded a sort of reverence from the Khersonian people. Dyra continued to while away the hours watching the long grass scorched a light brown from the high summer sun, drift back and forth in the breeze. It was welcoming to focus her mind solely on one thing and to temporarily remove all thought of the igneonite, the smugglers and the white walkers. Overthinking during the journey had rendered her exhausted. Whilst she was aboard the conveyor, she could do little but hope that the messenger raven would reach the smuggler's men with enough time for them to finish the forging. Until then she wanted a few hours of respite from her panic. She'd spent so long worrying about this operation, too many had died before trying to find igneonite for her over the decades and now she was so close to sweet success. Hamïd continued to remain silent, consumed by his own doubts and fears. He'd become so silent Dyra wondered if he was using magic, but then at long last, as the day started to draw to a close his finger developed an irritating need to tap inconsistently on his knee, and he had started to swallow more frequently and with greater fervour. At first she had tried to ignore it but once her attention had been drawn to it she found she could no longer absorb herself in the scenery outside.

She was starting to resign herself to the fact that the already lengthy and boring journey had just gotten longer and more tedious when an unusual sight flashed outside the carriage window. It could not have lasted more than 3 seconds, given the speed the conveyor was travelling but she was sure she was not mistaken. She craned her neck to look backwards. She had not been mistaken. There in the middle of the grasslands, not 20 yards from the train was a man dressed in scrappy old linen and boiled leather. He was simply standing there, spine curved from the years of long laborious work and skin soiled from soot and dirt, his hand clutching at what appeared to be a crumpled piece of paper. And both he and the large black raven that perched on his shoulder were looking straight at her. The smugglers had received the message. She knew that was what it must mean. They had received the message and they were waiting to meet her. The sound of a loud knock on the carriage door startled her out of her reverie and it took a couple of seconds for her to resume her impassive façade.

"Come in," they both responded in unison. She heaved an internal sigh of relief – at least Hamïd was no longer completely despondent. Desperate for something more distracting than his twitching finger and her morbid internal thoughts she looked up to see the carriage door slide away and reveal the tall, imposing figure of Vyan. He bowed stiffly before taking a couple of paces into the room.

"We're coming into a town at the base of the Heartland Mountains, Your Excellencies," Vyan's deep, rumbling voice was as loud as thunder compared to the deafening silence which had filled the carriage before.

"The driver wants to stop for fuel in the town before we begin our final day travelling through the Heartland Mountains to The Core," he finished waiting for their response. Hamïd stretched his stiff limbs before getting off one of the silk upholstered chairs and approaching the table in the centre of the carriage.

"Which town is it Vyan?"

"Azram, Your Excellency."

Dyra's eyes snapped to the map on the table. Azram. That's where the igneonite was being forged, if there was going to be any chance of the smugglers getting it to her, that town would be their best chance. Once she had crossed the Heartlands, it would be near on impossible to catch her without at least half a dozen guards. Her heart hammered at the prospect, this was what the man had been standing in the field for, a subtle message to be on guard for any one of the smugglers. She needed to get off there, and she needed both Hamïd and Vyan to be as unsuspicious as possible. She stretched her legs, before getting up slowly trying to remain as nonchalant and impartial as possible.

"Why don't we stay the night there? We're all tired and I for one am fed up of this conveyor." _Breathe_ she told herself. _Keep your voice level and monotone_.

"No. We need to get to the Core as soon as is possible," Hamïd cut her off quickly and she fought to keep her dismay at bay. There was no way she was staying in this carriage knowing the smugglers would never be able to get the igneonite on.

"I agree Your Excellency. Besides, my men and I would be less capable of offering protection to Her Excellency, we do not know this region and she has not been seen here in so long." The chance was escaping her before her very eyes, raw desperation clawing at her stomach.

"So that's settled then. We will remain on board whilst the driver refuels the conveyor – "

"No." The two men turned to stare at her in surprise. It was not often she refused to follow orders to their faces; time had seemed to erase all the iron stubbornness in her. But now Dyra had something to fight for, and like hell was she letting anyone take it from her.

"I have been kept in this singular carriage for the past two days. If I cannot stay the night in Azram, let me at least have a final meal in the open air." She was close to seething but she forced herself to remain only exasperated on the outside. Neither of them must have any indication as to how much this meant to her, otherwise they would never allow such an excursion. She looked into Hamïd's deep brown eyes imploringly. There was a pregnant silence.

And then she saw the ghost of a smile appear on his lips.

"I'm tired of this carriage too. We will do as you wish," he said kindly but stopped to reproach her the minute the smile spread across her face " _but_ we will not linger by any means." She hesitated before nodding in understanding. It was a start. When the conveyor slowly ground to a halt at the docking platform in the centre of Azram, she swiftly grabbed her cloak and before either Hamïd or Vyan had a chance to change their minds, hastily departed the conveyor into the town.

* * *

Her nerves had not gone unnoticed by Hamïd, that much she could tell. No matter how hard she tried to cover them up with reassuring glances in his direction, there was too much at stake for her to remain truly calm. At one point during the meal, he'd pulled her aside to ask whether she was truly okay.

"You can go back to the conveyor if you are really nervous. I cannot fathom how you must feel right now," She'd shaken her head quickly in response. Dyra needed to draw this out for as long as possible. If the smugglers had been monitoring her journey, surely they must know where she was now. It was just a case of biding their time for the most opportune moment. Hamïd and Vyan had misinterpreted her obvious signs of distress as fretfulness for the forthcoming days when her fate was to be decided and as a result had kept an even tighter monitor of her over the course of their food. She did not bother to correct them or try to deny that she was scared. If they had come to their own conclusions why argue against it and make them question her more. Better they made incorrect assumptions and she had the luxury of for once not expending time and energy into keeping her façade of indifference. The meal had been eaten and paid for. It was a simple skewered loin of lamb, with meagre rice and a cool herbal yoghurt added to prevent it from being too bland – nothing out of the ordinary but then again, the landlady had not expected Sothoryosi royalty to stop by her tavern that evening. They'd been assured it was the finest establishment in the town. Dyra was fairly confident it was the only establishment in town and so it was not much of an achievement, but she bit her tongue and refrained from saying so.

All too soon, Hamïd rose from the table and made to exit the sparse tavern, there was nothing she could do but to keep up appearances and follow. Outside in the late evening, the orange glow of the setting sun seemed to light up the walls of the sandstone buildings so that they shone with an earthy glow. Men, women and the like sat outside on makeshift chairs, drinking lukewarm tankards of ale, or chewing on a green plant. Azram was different in every way to Dalian; the streets were not alive with a nervous, neon energy, the men and women did not bustle everywhere at the pace of hounds and there was not a single mural or mosaic in sight. It was plain, simple and happy. She loved it.

Further down the street from her, in the direction of the conveyor docking platform, she saw a group of men throwing a frayed leather ball to each other, laughing jovially whenever one of them missed. The thin linen clothes they wore were stained from the sand and dirt they'd rolled in during the game and the smiles on their faces so alive and absorbing they had not yet noticed the presence of their rulers and their guards walking another two meters behind. They were an odd group, consisting of exuberant boys who could not be older than twelve and withering men who by the reluctant way they passed the ball and tackled each other, had to be pushing fifty at least. She was so engrossed in watching a particularly older man as they walked by she did not see the ball sail over her head or the young man stagger backwards, his arms outstretched in a vain attempt to catch it until he was toppling into her and knocking her to the floor.

Pain licked up her ribcage like a flame as the man's weight pressed into her side and above and behind she heard shouts from the guards, Vyan's booming voice quick to command the man 'to remove himself at once.' She looked up to see him staring down at her, eyes wild with nerves and lower lip trembling. And then she felt it, a long thin object was forced past her belt and held securely there resting against the small of her back, kept out of view by her cloak.

"Your purchase, Your Excellency," he whispered before being hauled off her by two of her guards.

"Apologise at once," Vyan commanded, in a voice that would have made his enemies cringe with fear. The smuggler offered a theatrical sorry, complete with trembling lower lip and watering eyes. Dyra was almost too stunned to respond, so offered a quick nod of her head and accepted the hand Hamïd offered her. As she stood up, the throb laced her side again and her hand automatically went to her lower ribs. One of the guards noticed and made a move as if to strike the smuggler.

"No!" she shouted. Every eye in the vicinity watched her beadily. She gave a quick cough to clear her throat. "I am alright Captain, you may leave the man alone." The guard nodded sharply before roughly letting go of the smuggler. She could feel her party start to leave, Vyan's hand was gripping her arm and urging her to move swiftly back to the conveyor. She threw one last glance over her shoulder to see the smuggler. He nodded at her quickly before turning to his friends and resuming the game.

Dyra's legs were almost stumbling each other, the tension in her body having increase tenfold. She could no longer feel her limbs. Instead, the nerves and muscles had been replaced with an intense buzz. Vyan's iron-like grip remained on her, and whilst she would usually chide him for treating her like a child, she did not think herself capable of being able to walk by herself, such was her nervous excitement. She had done it. She had actually managed to pull it off. And right under her brother's and Vyan's noses too. She wanted to laugh at the irony. She had never seen anyone as slick as that smuggler. It was only now she understood what danger he had put himself in. With the guards nearly always surrounding her in Azram it would have been nigh on impossible for her to sneak away and meet with him. No, it had to be done via a distraction, and what better distraction than one that involved the two of them colliding? With Vyan's assistance, she stumbled up the step and into the conveyor.

"I am fine now, thank you," she said breathily. If Vyan noticed any difference in her behaviour, then he did not mention it. Instead he watched as she carefully made her way down the conveyor corridor, her cloak pulled tight around her shoulders before passing the door into the Duke and Duchesses Quarters. Hamïd was waiting for her.

"Are you sure you are okay Dy?" he was on her in an instant, his brow furrowed and mouth drew tight "I saw you in pain, it was a nasty fall." He reached down to gingerly check her ribs but Dyra swatted his hand away quickly, anxious to have him away from the package.

"We heal fast. I'm fine," she said to distract him "Truly." She added for emphasis, making sure to hold his gaze.

"Really? Because Vyan needed to help you onto the conveyor and – "

"Hamïd I said I was fine," she snapped exasperatedly. _If only you knew why …_

He looked at her for a few long seconds, before nodding quickly and making his way over to his chair, shoulders slumped. Dyra gingerly lowered herself into the chair, making sure not to disturb the parcel nestled snuggly against her belt. She waited. The conveyor groaned into life. She waited some more. The sights of Azram disappeared and they started their ascent through the Heartland Mountains. She waited even longer. The sun disappeared and then finally after an excruciating two hours, Hamïd fell asleep.

Making sure she did not create a sound she headed over to the makeshift lavatory in the corner, pulled the door close after her and locked it. The dim glow from a small oil lamp in the corner lent enough visibility for her to tear off her cloak, rip off her belt and open the package. She took a deep breath and removed the glistening knife from the brown paper and gasped. 203 years and here she was. They had played her like a fool. She wanted to burst into tears, this was no igneonite knife. It was just a plain dagger. And she had paid double for it. She let it drop onto the cloak on the floor and collapsed against the toilets. As much as she had tried to remain pessimistic about the outcome she could not deny that she had gotten her hopes up. And now here she was trundling at high speeds through the Heartland Mountains towards The Core to await a chilling reality. It would seem prophecies could not be changed after all; there was no escaping her fate. The sob caught in her throat and she stuffed her hand into her mouth to muffle it. Ragged breaths of hot shame and despair escaped her and her eyes burned with tears. She had come so fucking close and she had been cheated. She looked down at the dagger, it's silver blade mocking her and reached down to pick it up. And then for the second time gasped.

As she pulled on the handle the blade seemed to slip away, revealing the dark red, glass-like rock beneath. It wasn't an ordinary dagger at all, it was a metal sheath disguised to make the dagger look like an ordinary blade. She was so astonished she could not breathe. They had not lied. They had gone above and beyond to help her. Given the purpose of the dagger she was not sure what that said about the smugglers, but at that point in time, she did not care. She daintily raised a finger to its tip and lifted it with both hands to the oil lamp, afraid that she had fallen asleep with Hamïd and that this was all a dream. No, for once reality really had been this good. She had not seen igneonite in person for two centuries, and it struck her that she had never appreciated its wicked beauty before. The grip was wrapped in a padded black leather and laden with intertwining silver filigree. It was not so ostentatious that it forwent its designated purpose but it was by no means plain. The pommel and guard were also silver in the lamplight and exquisitely carved to look the snakes of her House. But it was the blade itself that was the most beautiful. A vicious shade of red, it's translucent glass-like material meant that it almost seemed to glow. Pure igneonite.

Dyra had never seen a dagger as beautiful.

" _Liberator_ ," she whispered to herself. The blade winked in the light, happy with its new name.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed the second chapter! Sorry for the long wait but I was on holiday so relaxation naturally took priority. In this chapter think of the conveyor as the GoT equivalent of a steam train. People, society, technology and living standards all undergo dramatic improvements when exposed to long periods of peace and I wanted to show that here. My imagining for Sothoryos is how far Westeros could come if it had not been torn by war. Next chapter we shall meet a familiar name and then all too soon we'll be in Westeros! x**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – _Dyra Karvendeesh_

She had not stepped foot in the Core in so long, and yet returning had filled her with the same sort of unnerving reverence that it always had. Excepting the priests who lived in the First Temple and the militia trainees, no one had a permanent home here which lent the Core an eery quiet that forged feelings of both tranquillity and unease in equal measure. This meant the only buildings in the Core were all magnificent palaces for Council assemblies and visiting nobility. It was in these buildings that every kingdom wide law was ever made, every High Duke or Duchess was instated and every Sothoryosi soldier was trained, but apart from official duties there was little else that occurred.

Since she had arrived a couple of days ago, Dyra had been escorted wherever she went. It was almost as if the combination of being apart from Sakhi, and being responsible for her safety away from Dalian had driven Hamïd to extreme lengths with regards to being aware of every little thing she ever did. When they had first arrived two days previously, the two of them had been informed that every High Duke and Duchess except the two from The Wharf had safely arrived and that until then the Council would not convene. She had spent those days in the chambers she had been given in a separate palace for the two of them and their household to use. Hamïd in his near paranoid state had instructed her to remain there and so that had made it easy to conceal _Liberator_ from anyone who came to visit. However, this also meant she was unable to get to any temple in order to complete her mission. The frustration this created left her extraordinarily volatile to even the slightest of nuisances. Now that she was out of her room that anger had dissipated somewhat, but she still refused to accept that the nine guards who surrounded her on the walk from her chambers to the Council Hall were completely necessary.

Hamïd had joined her halfway after spending his morning (much to her irritation) further exploring the Core and all of its municipal architecture and was now recounting to her in vivid detail the many 'wondrous things' he had seen that morning. It did not escape Dyra's notice that he had seen them all many times before and that the true reason for his infernal lecture was just to fill the uneasy silence that had settled between them. Neither of them had acknowledged the elephant in the room that was the forthcoming council meeting, both instead choosing to either ignore it was ever occurring (Dyra) or prattle on incessantly on an anxiety fuelled babble (Hamïd). She was about to ask him to kindly be quiet when he did that all for himself and she realised they had reached the building.

'Building' was perhaps too slight a word. Palace, would have been more apt. The open columned portico rose high into the sky; perhaps a little too ostentatious considering it only contained two rooms; the antechamber and then the council rooms. Both were lined with stark white marble, both had towering cavernous domed ceilings and yet only one had any furniture in it; an enormous circular cherry wood table with fourteen ornately carved wooden chairs in the council room.

Their party of eleven stopped just before the guarded bronze door that led from the antechamber in the council room. Dyra's exaggerated personal guards parted in order for the two soldiers manning the door to see her. Beside her, Hamïd audibly gulped, cleared his throat and spoke aloud

"Dyra and Hamïd Karvendeesh, of the House Karvendeesh of Khersoni." The guards knocked on the door three times before opening it, the sound reverberating through the marble walls.

203 years. That's how long it had been since Dyra had been present at a Council Meeting, and she was filled with a wash of nostalgia as she glanced around. The vertices of the wall had been lined with gold filigree since she was last here but that was all that had changed. In front of her lay the great cherry table and around it the twelve other High Duchesses and Dukes of Sothoryos in garments as varied as their cultures. At the end closest to her were four empty chairs where two figures stood off to the side. ' _So they were the last to arrive,'_ she thought ' _brilliant_.'

There was the overpowering sound of chairs scrapping as she walked toward the table, filling the vacuum of sound. All twelve pairs of eyes rested on her, waiting meticulously for her to do anything of interest. She realised with a start that some of them were new. _Of course_. Not everyone from before would still be in this life. The thought filled her with a morose sense of culpability; what happened to them? When? How long had she kept herself ignorant of the rest of the kingdom? She was startled from this remorse for her own self-absorption and sadness at the losses by a tall full-figured woman moving away from the table to address her.

"Dyra," she smiled, her voice deep and rich "it has been too long." Jola Pursí had not aged a day since she had last seen her. The tall woman glided towards her like a swan, one arm outstretched and grasped her right hand firmly within hers. The full-mouthed smile on her face was filled with a hopeful mirth but her warm brown eyes betrayed her anxiety. It was this look that prevented Dyra from returning her warmth to the same extent. Jola had once filled her with confidence, formerly the human embodiment of nurturing and hope, but to see this never wavering certainty so drastically reduced made her feel even more uneasy. Perhaps a deep-rooted part of her had hoped that Jola would fill her with courage once again, but it had been dashed by that look in her eye.

Jola half lead, half dragged her towards the table to the chair on the furthest left of the row vacant seats. She knew it. To the left sat Ceiman Seamoore – the eldest, and therefore highest ranking Duke. As the eldest High Duchess she was supposed to lead them. She should have sat down straight away.

But it didn't feel right. No matter how much she might want to, she was no leader. She did not deserve to claim that chair, she could not be the person who inspired them all – she could barely inspire herself. She paused, casting one last long look at it and the rest of the room held its breath. And then she gently removed herself from Jola's grasp and looked at her, her eye brows knitted together in a silent apology: _forgive me, I cannot._

She moved two chairs to the right, and sat down. There was an almost audible sigh as several members of the council's shoulders sagged and Dyra was given the distinct impression that she had been the topic of heated discussion before her arrival. Jola stared at her for a minute longer looking defeated before masking her expression with one of composure and gliding to sit next to Ceiman at the metaphorical 'head' of the table. Even when her face looked sad the rest of her exuded joy; the sunshine coloured silk tunic and trousers which contrasted strikingly with her ebony coloured skin, were far and away the brightest thing in the room.

"Isabeth, I believe it was you who summoned this meeting," she spoke with a deep clarity. Yes, Dyra decided, refusing the head seat was the right decision for now, Jola would do a far better job than she could dream of. Further down the table, an aging woman's voice rang out.

"Bring in the emissary!"

There was a rumble, magnified by the marble walls, and the doors reopened to reveal two men who could not have looked more different if they tried. On the left-hand side stood a small, young, scrawny man, with bedraggled hair, restless eyes and even more fidgety hands. He stood and gaped at the room and the Council members, his ill fitting black clothes, unsuited to the climate and threadbare. If his gaunt cheeks and shadowed eyes were anything to go by he had not eaten properly in weeks, and he carried himself as such: crooked posture, arms folded over his stomach and the gait of someone who had spent his life bowing and serving others. But it was not him that Dyra's attention instantly focused on, no her eyes were instantly taken in by the straight-backed, aging man next to him. His hair and beard, which had faded with time to a white gold, were neatly trimmed, his nose and other facial features were sharp despite his age, and the laughter lines that surrounded his eyes were deep and well-worn. He strode confidently into the room, not with the walk of a man whose self-entitlement demanded respect, but with the walk of a man who no longer cared how you saw him; strong, languid and at his own pace. But it was his eyes that held her focus. Green as fresh-cut grass and clearer than any she had seen for two centuries.

 _Like his_ her mind thought without permission. It was all she could do to keep her composure as her heart thudded strongly in her chest. Beside her she could feel Hamïd's gaze fixated on her, waiting for her to bolt but she kept herself sitting down.

"My name is Gerion Lannister. I work as an emissary to the Sothoryosi Council in Pentos but originally I'm from Westeros," he announced in a booming voice that filled the cavernous room.

"Lannister?" an unfamiliar voice cried and Dyra turned to see a boy who looked no older than fifteen "Isn't House Lannister one of the Great Houses of Westeros?"

"It is indeed," Gerion replied with an acknowledging nod of his head, he then turned it towards the boy standing beside him, clearly looking to change the conversation "this is Will. He's a deserter from the Night's Watch in Westeros. He abandoned his fucking post despite the lifelong vows, stowed away on board a ship from White Harbour to Braavos and from there begged his way to Pentos. That's where I found him." Dyra tried hard to fight the smirk that wanted escape at Gerion Lannister's bad language, this became even harder when she saw the stunned faces of several council members.

Gerion looked to the boy to continue and when he received no sign the boy was about to speak, rolled his eyes and slapped him on the back.

"Tell them boy. Tell them what you saw that had you so frightened it made you run like a coward!"

The boy took a shaky breath "it were them. They was all dead, I know they were. About fifteen of 'em," he started, stuttering over his words and Dyra felt the entire atmosphere in the room shift. This was starting to sound exactly like what she had feared to hear the most. Everyone in the room clung to each word, each sound, each haggard breath the boy made.

"I watched them for half an hour, no one moved they were dead I know they were." He looked up at them "but they killed Ser Waymar and they would have killed me if I hadn't stayed in the tree," he was visibly shaking now, terrified by his own memories. Dyra empathised strongly with him.

"Are you sure they were dead?" spoke Ceiman slowly "we have to be sure about this."

"Aye, they were dead. Skin was white, eyes like ice." He stopped to gulp "They killed Ser Waymar. And then he came back alive, only it weren't him. Just some weird corpse that looked like him." Dyra sank back into her chair. He'd seen a wight. Not just one wight she corrected herself, multiple wights. And where there were wights, there were White Walkers. She'd known it since the minute Hamïd had told her about the letter, but hearing it now confirmed to her in person was petrifying. The sense of foreboding dread that filled her scarcely allowed her to breathe.

"Are you the only person that has seen these … dead people?" Ceiman started before turning to the table "Because if he is there's a chance that the cold could have just made him see thin-"

"I'm not mad!" Will shrieked "I swear it! They were dead and then they weren't!" He looked around desperately, his eyes shifting from person to person looking for a scrap of belief in anybody's eyes. Next to him Gerion shifted uncomfortably,

"I do not know of another who has seen the living dead," he started tersely "but I do know this. Over the last 3 years, there have never been a greater number of Night's Watch deserters nor of Wildlings south of the wall." He paused, considering his words.

"And they're not staying on Westeros for long either. They get as far south as they can or they stow away on the first ship to Essos or Ibben or anywhere that isn't fucking Westeros as fast as is possible. Wildlings are popping up all over the Free Cities, I've heard tavern owners and merchants complaining about them stealing. They've never done that before, their entire ethos is to remain free men and they can't do that anywhere south of the wall."

"Perhaps they're just migrating south to protect themselves from the forthcoming winter?" the old, female councillor from before suggested but one look from Gerion and she was quickly shut down.

"What, the wildlings who live in the Lands of Always Winter are scared of winter?" he patronised "no they aren't running from the cold. It's no coincidence that all the Watchmen who desert are all rangers. There's something sinister going on beyond the Wall and its White Walkers. I know it is. If I had more time, I'd gather more witnesses but I wasn't given the damn chance," he growled "they're not migrating. They're fleeing. They're all fleeing for their fucking lives."

There was silence.

Silence so long, so pronounced it drove an icy chill down her spine as if a White Walker had stepped into that very room and stroked a long, bony finger down her back.

And then all hell broke loose and the shouting erupted from each of the councillors.

"Lies! It's all lies, they've been dead for centuries!"

"We need to kill them now!"

"They don't even know we exist, let's just leave them to it!"

"I still say the boy is mad! Look at him he can't focus on one thing for longer than a second!"

"Western fabrications! They want us to leave our homes, abandon our kingdom!"

Dyra looked over at Ceiman and Jola. Neither were focused on the uproar and chaos that surrounded them; theirs was a sphere of grim composure. She felt Ceiman turn his eyes to look at her, the piercing grey meeting her brown, and in that moment she knew how completely he believed Gerion and Will. It was the word of one man, one very crazed man, but all the behavioural symptoms of everyone else indicated he was telling the truth. She couldn't completely admit to herself that White Walkers had returned but she knew he was right when he said there was some monstrosity occurring beyond the Wall – something that should not inhabit the world. She nodded at him in solidarity and took Hamïd's hand next to her. Now they would have to decide what to do.

"Silence!" Ceiman roared and the Council's shouting instantly evaporated. They all turned to look at him and Jola.

"If this is true, action must be taken immediatel-" he was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. They all turned startled to see Gerion looking quizzically at them all.

"If I'm begging your pardon, Your Excellency," he started "but what the fuck has this got to do with any of you huh? You're all several years of hard marching away for the Others to get to you. Seven hells, they'd have to cross the bloody sea and there's no knowledge of wights being able to swim."

Ceiman stared him down, waiting for Gerion to finish his little speech.

"We cared last time and we will care this time again," he began "you did not assume Azor Ahai was from Essos did you?"

Gerion stopped his mouth opening and closing.

"He was a Sothoryosi voyager. He saw what would happen if he fled when he was in Westeros and the rest you already know. I believe you know the tale of the Last Hero." Jola took this moment to step in.

"The White Walkers sole purpose in life is to obliterate human life. They will not stop in Westeros. And by the time they reach our shores – which they eventually will do – they will have an army the size of two continents. We cannot fight such a thing that size … but we can help whilst they are still comparatively small."

Gerion started shaking his head, lost in deep thought. "You can't do anything, not for a while at least." He murmured his head snapping up when several Council members opened their mouths to protest.

"You heard me. No one in Westeros actually believes that the Others exist. They're just stories to scare the children for a laugh," his hands clenched into fists and his head shook with disappointment "you'll be called a mad shit and cast out by even insinuating they are anything otherwise. And then there's the problem of you."

"Westeros does not think we exist either," Hamïd finished for him. Gerion nodded grimly.

"Seven Hells Essos doesn't think you exist. You turn up with an army claiming to be the Lords or whatever you're called of a kingdom few in Westeros even know exists and that you're here to help them defeat the living dead, they'll think you're invaders and fight you instead." A grim unease settled over the room. There was a significant silence as the nobles deciphered this new bit of information. Dyra struggled to comprehend how the situation could have been turned so bleak. The very people most at risk were also the one's that had forgotten their original enemy. She had always perceived ignorance to be the mark of fools, but now she considered it their death as well. Narrow minded desires to perceive their own safety had led to the war that threatened to disrupt their entire civilisation. The wall had done little to help as well, all it merely served to do was isolate and embitter thousands of wildlings, leaving them as sitting bait for the Others to turn into their personal army.

"It seems to me we need to establish three things," Hamïd slowly began to clarify after what had felt like an eternity of sitting and considering the dire circumstances. "Are the White Walkers rebuilding an army? How much do the Westerosi people believe in White Walkers? And are they smart enough to recognise the signs, and fight them?"

There was a general nodding consensus and he reached for Dyra's hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

"If you send an emissary, they could find this out and send ravens back. One person gives a much less hostile impression than an army. They don't even have to speak with the Lords over there, though that would help rally troops I'm sure, they just have to find out common public opinion. The more information they can get on the North and the Night's Watch the better," Ceiman concluded. Dyra's mind began to whirl, she had thought that all 14 of them would be travelling to Westeros straight away, she had been sure of it. When she'd head that the issue pertained Westeros she had been sure they would resurrect her prophecy. And yet here there was a chance that it would only be one person, nothing to specify it as her either, it could be anyone of the emissaries they had in the Free Cities; Gerion would be ideally suited. When she left Dalian she had assumed that she would never see her home again but perhaps they'd be reunited sooner than she had thought. Her heart rose through her chest to her head at the thought of home. It struck her odd that the place she had considered a prison for so long, now filled her with so much hope. But then again, remaining in Dalian meant remaining on Sothoryosi soil and near temples. And that was now the true intention of her life. This was turning out so much better than she had expected.

"I could contact the intermediary in Braavos," Gerion suggested. _Yes, Yes, YES._

"No." came a cold hard voice. Dyra's head whipped round to face Jola and ice filled her veins.

"Would this not be suitable Your Excellency," Gerion growled _. Listen to him,_ Dyra begged but Jola's jaw was set firm and her hands fisted within each other. She stared at no one in particular as she voiced her thoughts aloud and Dyra was overcome with the knowledge that all the loose ends were coming together in Jola's head. And she knew she wasn't going to like the plan.

"Boy, how long did it take for Gerion to find you after you left the Watch?" she said voice uneven and unfeeling.

"About a year or so Your Gr-Excellency," confusion laced through his response.

"And then Gerion, how long did it take you to journey here?"

"Well after meeting the boy and already knowing about the wildlings in the Free Cities it took me approximately 3 bloody months to reach you."

"So since the group of wights was first spotted by the boy and I doubt he is the first to have seen them, nearly a year and a half has passed. If the boy is right then by my estimation the White Walkers no longer care about being subtle, they'll kill anything that breathes beyond the Wall. That must be an army of several thousands by now."

She looked to Ceiman. "If we send an Essosi emissary there is little validity in proving to the Westerosi that Sothoryos exists. None have our accent or resemble us or really know much about us other than the fact we exist and we pay them. And we cannot just send an ordinary Sothoryosi citizen. Whoever we send _will_ need to be able to speak to both the common people and the Lords and Ladies. If we send a normal person to Westerosi nobility they will view it as an insult and reject us."

Her eyes scanned the room slowly and Dyra's heart thumped faster and faster as they scoured the room before settling like the toll of a nell on her. She could no longer see any warmth in her now.

"It needs to be one of us. And Dyra should be the one to go." Despite her disbelief and vehement refusal to go, she was not the first to speak.

"Jola you must be joking!" Hamïd roared standing up so swiftly his chair clattered to the floor and Dyra flinched violently. He was joined by several more shouts of protestations from other Council members.

"This is the first Council meeting she's been 'well enough' to attend in centuries and you want to trust her with this," Isabeth yelled.

"I'm the youngest and therefore least valuable, I should be the one to go," the baby-faced boy from before asserted. Dyra should have felt insulted they were arguing against it because they felt her incapable of such a journey, but the reality was she was too relieved to care. That is until a voice that had previously been quiet shouted out.

"Dyra will go. She was prophesised to go." Her head whipped round to see a young waif of a woman, at the other end of the table. Her face was unrecognisable which meant that she must have turned recently. The deep bronzed skin and thick black hair indicated that she was from Qulee. Dyra had no idea that the High Duchess there had even changed so she must only recently been instated.

New born or not, she hated her to the very core of her being. Hot, angry tears burned in her eyes and she felt Hamïd grip her wrists tightly to prevent her from physically lashing out at the girl.

"Exactly," she heard Jola say behind her in a voice that was as unfeeling as a wight. The Council shifted uncomfortably. They all knew her prophecy. They all knew each of their prophecies. All High Dukes and Duchesses were given one when they were instated. That prophecy had haunted Dyra the second she had been given it, rendering her unable to sleep for years, the words echoing in her head like a war cry. As she had gotten older, it had bothered her less, there had never been a time allocated to it; for all she knew it could have been way into the future. So she had attempted to forget it, to eschew it from her mind and memories and continue living. The past couple of centuries she had been too full of grief to even consider it. But that had all changed with Hamïd's letter; the prophecy had bounded back with a renewed force, and now hearing about the White Walkers she knew it would be used against her. She knew this, Jola knew this and every other Council member knew this.

"What does the prophecy say?" Gerion's overly curious voice filled the empty cavern.

After a long pause, Jola opened her mouth to recite only to be cut off by Dyra herself, speaking the words that had been carved into her brain.

"Prophecy of the eleventh Karvendeesh. Dyra, first of her name.

The Great Sun God's daughter will journey west and raise the Lord of Light. She will fall to flame or the world to darkness. She will die long before she passes from this world. The rise of the dead will rebirth her living corpse."

The words were out in the open and she could not take them back. Her hand and lips trembling.

"You sentence me to a fate worse than death," she spat out to Jola, before turning her head to the rest of the Council Room "all of you." Her eyes settled on Hamïd's face, his eyes red rimmed and hands clenching the arms of his chair so hard the knuckles threatened to pierce the skin. He opened his mouth to say something, no doubt reassuring like he used to when he first heard her prophecy but that would no longer work now that her fate was so imminent.

She could feel the energy drain from her limbs and the blood pound in her head. Clumsily she stood and backed away from that cursed table, ignoring Hamïd and Jola's shouts after her. In the back of her head she could register Ceiman awkwardly demanding that they reconvene and vote on her departure later but she already knew her fate was sealed. Her weak legs nearly betrayed her on multiple occasions as she half stumbled, half ran from the room back to the palace she'd been kept in sequestration.

 _I have to get to a temple. Now._

* * *

Even though she had known the outcome the Council meeting would bring, it did nothing to assuage the dread that completely embodied her now. The reports were largely unfounded, just one man's voice claiming to have seen a wight – not even a white walker at that. But the decision had been all but made, and Ceiman and Jola had signed her sentence – she would travel west.

She had to get out of here, and quickly. She knew that the minute she left Sothoryosi shores there was no chance of _Liberator_ being of any use – or at least no more than any other ordinary dagger. No-one from the assembly had followed her from the Council chambers, probably in an attempt to give her the space she needed but the guards she had been assigned hurried to catch up with her, caught off guard that she would be leaving the meeting so soon and in such a state. The incessant sound of their boots behind her, drove her onwards towards her chambers where _Liberator_ was being stowed. The guards pulled back slightly when they saw she was merely going to her room but they still followed through the halls of the palace to her chambers. As soon as she was in them, she slammed the door and bolted it. Making sure no one could get in unawares she started pacing around the room.

This was it, the last chance she would ever have before being forced to leave and live out the prophecy. That was the reason why she had been allowed to suffer for so long, why she had been watched and guarded and all but imprisoned in her own home. Four damned sentences that had ensured her physical and emotional pain continued both day in and day out. She could not arouse suspicion to herself. She had a small window of opportunity before anyone of the Council members – most likely Hamïd – came to visit her and reinforce and update the security on her. But nor could she return to her room and then instantly leave, the guards would be too wary. She took a deep breath to calm herself and then crossed the room to her bed. Carefully so as not to make a noise she lifted the mattress and felt for the tear she had made in its underside. Her fingers feeling the torn edges, she plunged her hand into the mattress and felt for the cool metal touch of the dagger. Finally, her fingers grasped its blade and carefully she pulled it out before returning the mattress to it's original position.

She hitched up the skirt she was wearing and tied the dagger around her right thigh using a scrap of linen, taking time to ensure that when she lowered her skirts it would leave no visible bumps. And then she waited a minute. And waited some more. When she was convinced she had wasted enough time her impatient self grabbed a silk scarf and roughly wrapped it around her head before heading to the door of her chambers and throwing open the door. Only to reveal a startled Jola who held her hand up about to knock.

The unease and anxiety that engulfed Dyra meant she reacted more startled than usual and she jumped back several paces and knocked into a table with her right thigh. Her heart stilled and she struggled to focus her on Jola whilst her attention was completely overwhelmed by the fact that _Liberator_ had slipped and was now resting at a jolted angle, the tip poking out the back of her skirt. One wrong move and it would fall.

"Dyra, where are you going," Jola started, her voice far too polite for the betrayal she had issued not even an hour earlier.

"To the temple. To pray for my life since my former closest friend stole it from me." She had never felt such acute hatred towards someone before. It irrationally suffused every pore in her body and she could feel the tension rolling off her in waves. "You dare show your face here after what you have done to me!"

"If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else in that room and you know it. We all know the prophecy, we all knew it had to be you," Jola tried reasoning with her.

"You know what will happen to me and you send me there anyway! What kind of a person are you?" she seethed, her voice straining with the effort to even form words.

"A leader. And one who knows that sacrifices have to be made no matter the personal cost."

"What the fuck do you know about personal cost?" she screamed now, all pretences of trying to stay calm gone. Jola's smooth, calm expression morphed into one of equal anger.

"You are my closest friend! Of course this is a personal cost! I have watched you waste away over the last couple of centuries. Do you have any idea how hard it has been? You weren't the only one to lose someone that day" Jola might as well have slapped her for the effect the words had on her.

"You dare insult me with that? The situations aren't even comparable. How would you feel if Mukana died? Would that compare to losing me?" she reached out to hit her but Jola caught her weakened hand with ease. The anger was gone from her expression and if Dyra hadn't been so furious she might have been more wary.

"Dyra, where are you going?" she spoke evenly.

"To pray like I said before. I'll need all the help the Great Sun God can give me now!" she spat, continuing to fight against Jola's iron grip which was beginning to shoot pains down her arm.

"Hamïd has told me you haven't prayed in decades," Dyra's efforts slowed down as Jola's voice eerily started to sound accusatory "Dyra where are you going?" She didn't answer, couldn't answer. All she was capable of doing was looking Jola in the eye and seeing the raw, blazing determination there focused on her skirt.

"Dyra lift up your skirt," Jola spoke evenly. All the fight left Dyra's hand.

"What?" she tried dumbly.

"Lift up your skirt." Jola said. Dyra froze unable to move, unable to believe this was happening. When she still hadn't shifted Jola used her other hand to reach down and pull up her skirt, revealing Liberator nestled precariously against her leg. Before Dyra had time to react, Jola had snatched the dagger from it's confines.

"Guards," she had shouted and almost instantly Dyra found her hands grabbed.

"Get off me!" she screamed petrified at the thought of losing "I command you, please! Please!" the tears were flowing thick and fast, it was all she could do as she was forced to watch Jola slowly remove the metal sheath from the dagger to reveal the wicked red, igneonite blade.

There was an audible sob from both girls. Dyra choked on her tears. It was over now, she knew there was no way she could ever break free. She felt the last remnants of hope that had slowly brewed up over the previous months be obliterated before her very own eyes.

"How … I don't understand … how did you get this?" Jola whispered, visibly disturbed.

"It doesn't matter now does it? You won't let me end it all now." She gagged on her own sobs. Jola turned to her furious.

"Of course I won't let you die! How could I? How could I stand back as you committed suicide?" she shouted.

"I would have let you! If Mukana was dead, I would have given you the igneonite! I would have let you end all the suffering rather than forced you to live through this curse that our so called 'Sun God' gave us"

"And if the situations were different I would have done the same for you! But they weren't. Luc died and you needed to stay alive, the prophecy demanded it!" Dyra flailed trying to hit her.

"Fuck the prophecy! I wouldn't let you live through that either! I would have helped you, I would have always helped you! I have lived in physical and emotional agony because you turned your back on me when I needed you the most! And now if the prophecy is anything to go by you're sentencing me to become a wight!"

"I never turned my back on you," Jola strained "I just saw what needed to be done, whilst you so clouded by grief turned your back on your duty."

"Can you blame me? I'm not supposed to outlive Luc this long – it's not the natural order of things! You, Hamïd and the entire Council imprisoned me like an animal ready to fulfil the prophecy and be slaughtered at the right moment!"

"We don't have a choice, Dy," Jola whispered stepping further away from her. "You must go to Westeros now. This dagger won't work in the same way there. You've given us no choice."

"Like I had one to begin with," she spat at Jola's feet and turned up to face her, face red with anger, eyes blinded by hate. When Jola responded it wasn't to her, it was to the guards.

"Take her to the cells on the far side of the Core. I must convene the Council, tomorrow we leave for Zamettar." And then she hurried away, _Liberator_ in hand leaving Dyra on her knees, a sobbing, desperate mess.

* * *

The Council had heeded Gerion's advice about the lack of knowledge for both Sothoryos and the White Walkers. Dyra still had trouble digesting the fact that Westeros believed the Long Night and the stories of Azor Ahai to be nothing more than impractical fantasy; ghost stories to tell the children. She could understand the desire to feign ignorance and let harsh reality become nothing more than legend, but that did not mean she appreciated the need to. To pretend that nothing had existed at all was to condemn the Westerosi population to grave danger; surely, they understood that?

She was so lost in her thoughts, she barely registered when the dense tree canopy collapsed overhead and the cramped cell-like room on the conveyor was flooded with beams of light from the tiny slit like window. The light filtered down onto her hands, shaking her from her internal rationale. She uncrossed and stretched her aching limbs before unsteadily pushing herself off the floor to look out of the window. It took several seconds of rapid blinking for her eyesight to adjust to the intense brightness but when they did she was greeted with the sight of Zamettar in the distance, and the Summer Sea beyond it. She'd never travelled beyond the defences into the Green Hell. It'd existed as a natural border from invading enemies from millennia. The Sothoryosi had once attempted to cultivate it, but when relations with the Valyrian stronghold and Essos had become sour, they'd allowed it to return to its original feral state. The difficult terrain and climate made traipsing an army through it near impossible, and had acted as the biggest defence mechanism the continent had. And manning it all were the forgotten ports of Yeen and Zamettar – once major trading ports connecting Sothoryos to Essos and beyond. They'd been allowed to be abandoned by citizens - as they no longer could inhabit it safely - but not by military personnel who remained there to oversee the defence system.

As the conveyor rolled steadily into Zamettar, Dyra gulped at the ominous ambience of the town. Tears pricked her eyes as the train passed what remained of houses, butchers, trading stalls and blacksmiths, all collapsing under the crushing weight of time, and left to fester and rot for an eternity. Her breath caught at a derelict temple, it's brightly painted walls faded by the sun and covered with grime. The door and windows had been smashed no doubt by pirates, looting the port's remains. Its sad façade reminded her of another temple in another place, closer to home –

The wretched sob was drawn haggardly from her throat before she could stop it. She stuffed her hands into her mouth to prevent further sounds escaping her. She could not afford to look afraid, even when they sent her away from the only land she'd ever known. Willing her heart to still and her bones to regain an ounce of strength, she forced herself back into a cramped sitting position to wait out the remainder of the journey.

After what had felt like an interminable amount of time, the conveyor shuddered to a stop, it's brakes groaning with the long-forgotten effort. Within thirty seconds, a military officer was unlocking the cell she'd been kept in and assisting her to her feet. Tentatively she tried to take a few steps but her limbs, devoid of any feeling after sitting for two long, could not take the effort and she was left tumbling to the floor. With great effort the man raised her again and held his arm for her to clutch on. She hesitated before taking it, willing herself to put as much distance as possible between the two of them so as not to give the air of someone who needed so much assistance just to walk.

The first thing she saw as she exited the conveyor, was a large wooden ship, nestling against the stone jetty in the harbour. It was old; the wood aged and worn, the sails patchy and stitched together in several locations, but most importantly it was practically empty. Skeletal in fact. She turned to see Hamïd shuffling towards her, head angled upwards to inspect the ship. The clench of his jaw and thin lipped grimace told her he was just as dismayed with the state of the vessel as she was.

"I was informed the ship would be basic in order to prevent piracy," he muttered "but this is something else." He turned around to face another behind them "are you sure this is safe? Do you have any idea what it would mean if the ship was wrecked?"

"I've sailed the Summer Sea's for years, Your Excellency," she heard the sharp response of Gerion Lannister "and this is the smartest way to avoid attacks. Big enough to not be an easy invasion but shit enough to not be worth it. Pirates will not care about such a lowly looking thing when there is greater prey voyaging around these parts."

Dyra took a deep, shaky breath conscious it would be one of the last she would take on these shores. With the look of the ship perhaps it would be one of her last breaths full stop, the boat looked like it would keel the minute she stepped aboard.

"You better be right Lannister," she muttered and a snort behind her told her she had been heard.

"I'm a Lannister, I'm never wrong." Fighting the urge to roll her eyes she took a couple of steps forward away from the conveyor platform and towards the harbour. Almost in sync, the sounds of footsteps echoed to her left. Quite a few it would seem had come to see her off and when she turned to look at them she was unable to prevent the surprise on her face.

A host of guards in deep muted green armour stood in formation, their faces turned straight ahead but their eyes unable to prevent themselves from being fixed on her. She supposed this was the first time any members of the public had officially seen her in two centuries. These must have been the soldiers stationed here permanently to act as a pre-emptive defence and to accost any explorers or pirates who came to close for comfort to the heavily secretive Sothoryos.

She took a gulp, the amount of eyes fixed on her making her uneasy and with an almost imperceptible nod in their direction she set off after everyone else down the jetty to the ship.

"Your Excellency if I may have a word," Gerion said all traces of teasing removed from his tone. This fact alone was enough to force her to turn around and face him. She noticed they were now a little separate from the rest of the militia and farewell party and at the end of the jetty she could see Hamïd watching her closely, eyes squinted in confusion.

"Yes My Lord?"

"Gerion," he corrected "I refused that title when I left my family." Her eyes narrowed; what kind of person abandoned their own family for no given reason? Her chin lowered and she fixed him with a cold stare, a silent command for him to continue.

"I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you?" He approached but hastened to add when her eyes widened and her lips curled in distate, surprised he would ask anything of her. "it's really nothing too taxing, don't look at me like that for fuck's sake."

"What is it?" Dyra ground out, her patience already at it's limits. Today was not the day to ask favours of her, she was already being put through too much. Gerion reached behind him to pick up a long, thin parcel, almost taller than herself and evidently not light if the way Gerion's aged arms became taut had anything to show. The package was wrapped in dirtied hessian and secured at either end with thick rope. He held the parcel out to her, gesturing for her to open it. Dyra edged forward and untied the knots, curious as to what such an unusually shaped package would contain.

The fabric slipped away to reveal the most beautiful greatsword Dyra had ever seen. The blade itself was dark, the countless folds and ripples lending the steel the semblance of a sea in mid-storm. Valyrian steel. Dyra could trace the layers with her fingers, feel the inscriptions near the hilt: _Hear Me Roar_. The grip was red leather, bound tightly and embroidered with gold thread. The cross-guard contained further solid gold craftsmanship, but all of this was nothing compared to the pommel which rose out of the top of the sword like a crown in itself. The roaring lion's head was battered but no less fearsome; the gold, dulled by time, if anything made the sword more eerily beautiful.

" _Brightroar_ ," Gerion said softly "the ancestral greatsword of House Lannister." She looked up at him, to see him staring at the sword with a look of nostalgia.

"Just over 10 years ago, I set off to look for this fucker in the Smoking Seas of Valyria. It had been a childhood dream to find it, 'to do my part for House Lannister'" he said in a bitter imitation of someone he clearly once knew. "It took 3 hard, long years, but I found it. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all because I knew that was it, I would return and there would be nothing left for me" his large imposing brow was tugged together, his voice present but his mind, she realised, a thousand miles away.

"My brother Tywin was always brilliant," she listened to him, all familiar traces of joking gone, she realised he didn't sound bitter like most people would have, he just sounded resigned. "He was something of a genius, cast one hell of a shadow when I was growing up. But he wasn't an easy man. No … brilliant but ruthless. My brother Kevan was also clever but he wasn't anything like Tywin so he became his right hand man. My other brother, Tygett, well he lived as if he had a constant stick up his arse. More jealous of Tywin than anything else. And then there was me." He looked at her now, realising she had been watching his face morph as he remembered his family.

"I wasn't stupid but I was no Tywin. And I wasn't serious enough to be his right hand man like Kevan. And well I knew I could never beat him at his own game like Tygett tried to," he gulped "there was no place for me back home. So when the Sothoryosi scouts caught the ship and offered me the opportunity to spy for them, it was too good to be true. I had a purpose again, and it was no longer something superficial or fictitious like _Brightroar_." Gerion's eyes travelled wistfully back down to the sword in his hand, she understood then what it meant to him, how much it meant to him. So she covered it back up.

"I understand the desire to leave and never return," she said quietly looking up at him "what is it you would like me to do?"

"Bring it home. You're going to Westeros and I know your main job is to see what the people believe but at some point you're going to have to convince the Lords and Ladies of Westeros of what you know. To do that it'd be best to get into the Red Keep. This sword belongs at Casterly Rock with my family, but it may also buy you the ticket to an audience with Tywin Lannister that you need. He's there serving as Hand of the King to my great nephew Joffrey." Dyra's brow furrowed.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, it has been a while since I looked at Westerosi history but if I am not mistaken, the Targaryen's are the ruling House of Westeros?" She was cut off with a sharp laughter.

"Seven hells they weren't kidding when they said you were in the dark," he grinned once again "the Targaryen's haven't been on the throne for nearly two fucking decades. It's the House Baratheon that rules now." She could feel her eyes widen in shock.

"Did the house die out?"

"Nah the Baratheon's rebelled, you've got all the time in the world on that shitty ship to learn about this." His green eyes crinkled at the corners, amused by her confusion.

"B-But they have dragons!" she protested.

"Not anymore," Gerion sighed "damn shame really. Would have made it more entertaining." Dyra's mind reeled. She knew that times would change over the last couple of centuries, but she had never given much thought to the rest of the world. It had simply never concerned her before, why should it now? Her cheeks hot with embarrassment from Gerion's teasing she hastily snatched the greatsword out of his hands.

"I'll return this to your brother or any immediate members of your family. Thank you," she said courteously. She turned to leave but felt a terse hand grab her forearm in a painful grip. Immediately she flinched, the constant ache in her bones and muscles that accompanied her everywhere, peaked and waned just as quickly as it had come. She saw Gerion's eyes flicker over her shoulder and knew instantly that Hamïd was watching them even more closely, if not already moving towards them to defend her.

"Anything else, you feel the need to ask," Dyra stared him down imperiously, she felt remorse for the man before her but he was now a commoner despite his noble birth and this did not give him the right to cause her harm no matter his intention. Whatever guilt Gerion had for her disappeared when he saw the cool gaze she levelled him with, and instead his lips twitched with mirth.

"My brother is no fool, he'll dismiss the sword for a fake at first. Don't forget he's thought me dead a good 8 years. You need to give him this as well to prove its legitimacy and mine," he paused to pull a letter and a much smaller parcel from within his cloak. Gerion hesitated, his mouth opening and closing, finding the words to say before settling upon: "it also explains everything to him." With the message finished he carefully folded the parchment into the hessian flaps which contained the sword. And when Dyra turned to look up at his face, he looked ten years younger. Despite his age, it was obvious he was handsome in his youth. Coupling this with his charismatic personality and she was left with no doubt that Gerion Lannister was quite the breaker of hearts when he was a youth – most likely to his brother's dismay.

"I wish you well in Westeros Your Excellency. Say hello to my nephews for me. They always were good fun," and with that he turned to leave.

"You are not travelling to Westeros even for a visit?" Dyra shouted after him. "I would have thought a curious person such as yourself would want to see what has become of their family?"

Gerion paused for an almost imperceptible second, his shoulders tensed and then he turned to face her a wry smile etched onto his face, "I board a ship to Yunkai in two days time and from there I'll return to my wife and children in Pentos. Some things, Your Excellency, are best left in the past no matter how much we may want them to return." And with that he walked away from her. She did not know how long she'd been staring after him until she heard footsteps behind her.

"He's a good man really," Jola claimed softly. She had walked confidently behind her but as she approached her pace had slowed to a nervous traipse until she was next to her, the top of her head level with Dyra's nose.

"Soon I will be forced away from the only land I have ever known. I am not in the mood to waste such precious time, discussing trivial things with you," Dyra responded allowing every ounce of hatred to leach into her voice.

"Why do you hate me so much for this? Hamïd has done nothing less," Jola turned to her, her ebony skin starkly contrasting the white linen she wore. Dyra felt her blood boil and fought to keep her anger in.

"Because Hamïd was at least apologetic about everything he ever did to me. You act as if it is the right thing to do."

"Keeping you alive is the right thing to do!"

"Not when I am in pain!" Dyra was close to tears. "Not when I have to spend every torturous second, hurting in every cell and fibre of my body. Not when I have to continue onwards and I can't feel anything other than misery" Jola's deep brown eyes turned to her in pity, which did little to sooth the desire to hit her.

"Everything I ever did, I did because we care for you Dyra. This is what is meant to happen. You are meant to go to Westeros, we just never really knew why, surely you can see this," she was pleading with her now, reaching out to grab her arm but Dyra snatched it from her grasp.

"Please Dy," she whispered.

"This is the last time I will ever see you Jola. That is the one good thing about today," Dyra said, turning to walk towards the wreck of a ship that would take her far away. There was a moment's silence from behind and she'd begun to assume Jola was too angry to continue reasoning with her.

"Dyra wait," there was something different about the way she spoke now. No longer the desperate voice of the former trusted companion she'd deployed before, Jola sounded cold, distant and aloof.

"You might as well take this then," she said and Dyra turned to see Jola's arm extended, _Liberator_ held out to her, wrapped in the disguised metal sheath. She did not even bother to hide the surprised expression on her face; Jola had gone to such great lengths to keep her quarantined from any other living, breathing soul like an animal since she had first discovered _Liberator_. Why would she even consider returning it to her now?

"It will not work in Westeros. There are no temples dedicated to the Great Sun Lord," Jola admitted seeing her confusion "at least not in the way you wish it to."

"So you're giving me a constant reminder of my own failure as a parting gift?" Dyra snapped. This was too much, she'd come so close to escaping this journey, this life and everything within it, but Jola had put an end to it. Forcing her to acknowledge her almost success, day in day out whilst she was away from home was cruel.

"And what's to stop me taking this greatsword and running it through you," she gritted out gesturing to _Brightroar_ tucked carefully in her arms. Jola's eyes flitted anxiously and her mouth set hard, but she never lost her grim composure.

"You no longer have the strength, you're too weak," she coolly responded, her lack of emotion only serving to ignite Dyra's further. She stood facing Jola for a long time, waiting for her desperation to dissipate somewhat, to leave her level headed. Because at the root of it all, that was what she was. She could claim she was angry at Jola, but she knew the Duchess had her best interests seemingly at heart, the same way she justified Hamïd's actions; it's just neither of them knew what was fated for her in Westeros. She knew this, and yet she was too broken to either accept it or acknowledge it.

No, the reality of it was that she was scared, and a coward. And she had been looking for a path to claw her way to an escape for too long for her to change her habit now.

"There's a temple over there," she murmured her gaze softening at the ruin she had spotted back on the conveyor, "what's to stop me from taking the dagger and going there myself? Finish it now before you force me to leave?"

Her conscience registered an audible intake of breath and then a guiltily whispered confession.

"The soldiers aren't only here to see you off. They were here to prevent you doing anything stupid. And you're too weak to use magic." Dyra fought to swallow the rock that had formed in her throat, her stomach churning.

"You have no right to command them to do anything against me. I am the oldest member of the Council; of the two of us I have the superior authority" she murmured weakly, hating how pathetic she sounded. _Those that must exploit their titles, do not deserve to have them_.

"Not when it's a unanimous vote, Dyra," Jola responded. Her head snapped up at this revelation, even Hamïd had agreed to this. She could not comprehend how he would willingly sanction their own soldiers to maim her, should she try to escape. How much faith had she forced him to lose in her, due to the course of her actions? Dyra could not stand the thought of a disappointed Hamïd; he had been the one thing consistently urging her on throughout the years.

Jola's voice broke her from her chain of thought "just take the dagger Dyra. You paid for it you might as well use it whilst you're away,"

"And you'll take it off me when I return?"

"Of course," her lips curled at one corner, "but until then it is yours."

Dyra hesitated, before awkwardly tucking the dagger into the hessian folds covering Brightroar. She could store it away later.

"Goodbye Dy," Jola muttered a hopeful expression melting into a crestfallen one when Dyra simply responded with a nod. Jola had once meant so much to her, and deep down she still did. But she could never forgive her for how she betrayed and ignored her wishes. Jola was looking for someone to fix, to return things to how they once were, but Dyra knew that the change in her was irreversible no matter how hard others tried. She could never be that happy, confident, strong woman again and it broke her just as much to know this as it did Jola to speak to the mere shell of her former confidante.

Unable to take Jola's pitiful grimace, Dyra turned and walked down the jetty to the small crowd by the ship's gangplank. She'd barely reached the ship, when a strong pair of hands carefully lifted Brightroar from her hands and set it on a pile of crates, ready to be loaded into the hull. She looked up to see Vyan smiling at her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quizzically, caught unaware by her Chief Guard. Vyan merely smiled a sheepish grin that had far too much impishness to make her feel easy.

"Your Excellency did not think she'd be travelling alone did she?" if Dyra was being honest she had not thought about travelling companions at all, in an attempt to mentally refute the idea of her going anywhere "I've been assigned to accompany you in Westeros, along with three others; two maids and another guard."

"I thought I was supposed to be blending in with the common people?"

"Well erm yes, but should you manage to find your way into the Red Keep, you cannot claim to be a foreign dignitary if you don't have someone looking out for you," it made sense. They could act as her friends when they were in the slums or towns but the minute she had to return to her position of high birth, they could support the act it would take to persuade the Lords and Ladies of Westeros.

"Thank you Vyan," she said with a small smile and a nod of her head. Vyan's small smile morphed into a wide grin and he bowed before ascending the gangplank. The sound of a throat being cleared behind her made her turn. She barely had time to register Hamïd's face before he had engulfed her in a hug so tight she could scarcely breathe.

"I'm going to miss you Dyra," he whispered against the top of her head. Her heart clenched at the words and she burrowed her hair in his shoulder. She was supposed to be the sister he never had, but she had been so desolate and without hope she had failed him in practically every way. Hamïd was the only person Dyra had left and despite everything she had thrown in his direction, he had never abandoned her or left her. Maybe leaving him was for the best; she'd only served to hold him back in the past.

"I shall miss you too," she said pulling back to look him in the face. If the deep purple shadows under his eyes were anything to go by, Hamïd had struggled to sleep these last few nights just as much as she had.

"You will be fine without me though, you've managed by yourself for so long," Dyra spoke looking up at him eyes shining with pride. Hamïd's face stretched into an ear-splitting smile and pulling apart from her he reached out to nudge her shoulder.

"There is no conceivable way that I could have managed without you there," he teased. The praise sat oddly with her, not because it was ill intended, nor because she thought Hamïd was lying – no she was sure he meant every word of it, that was just the kind of person he was – it was the fact that even with his conviction, the words felt undeserved. She had helped him, in the very beginning but that had been it and so hearing him share any credit regarding Khersoni's prosperity only served to make her feel ashamed. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks and found she could no longer look him in the eye.

"Regardless," she began trying to move the conversation swiftly on "I wish you all the good fortune in the world … brother."

He pulled her in for another tight hug, an almost giddy grin when for the first time in years she responded with just as much enthusiasm, the fear that she would never see him again stripping her of every miniscule particle of resentment for his part in her confinement until there was nothing but a desire to never say goodbye. This was the last person she would see before she left, of that she was sure, and once they had parted there would be no more excuses for her to remain on the jetty.

"I have something for you Dy," he said pulling apart one final time, his hand searching a pocket within his linen tunic. From within he pulled a scrap of fine, black cotton and handed it to her. On the side facing her, was a pair of meticulously embroidered albino cobras, arranged in a circle: the symbol of House Karvendeesh.

"I had one of the maids make it for you before you left. I know the concerns of our house have not been on the highest of your priorities since ... well, you know. But it's always a part of who you are regardless of how much you acknowledge it." He was right, she used to be proud of her House but it had been a long time since the pair of snakes had resonated so deeply with her.

"Besides," he continued "I hear they are still fond of tournaments in Westeros. You can use it as a favour," she could almost hear the smirk on his tone.

"Thank you," she said briskly "but I don't think it will come to that." She gave him a smile and tied the favour around her wrist.

"Goodbye Dyra. Until you return."

"Goodbye Hamïd." She did not bother telling him that the chances of her ever coming back were slim. Instead she spent her final seconds with him, committing the face of the closest person she had to family to memory. She turned and started to walk the gangplank and board the ship. She could see Vyan talking with whom she presumed to be the Captain by the bow. The main deck was sparse, the only additions it contained were the wooden crates for the journey which were soon to be lowered into the hull and that was it. She allowed her hand to languidly trail along the rough railings taking in the sight of Zamettar and the Green Hell beyond. This was it. The last time she might ever see home and she drank it all in obsessively, desperate to permanently scar it into her memory. A raw sob bubbled up her larynx and out of her mouth and this time she did nothing to stop it. She'd fought so hard the last few days to try and fight this fate but a part of her had always known that this was the predetermined course of her life, no matter how much she wanted to counteract it. She could see Hamïd looking up at her below, see the concern and the helplessness in the way his jaw clenched and his brows pulled together.

 _Hold it together. Just keep yourself together until we are out of view, at least for him._

She clung to the rails to keep her legs from collapsing beneath her, and with the other folded it defensively across her stomach so as to keep all the worlds harm from ever reaching her, even as it knocked on her door. There were several shouts behind her on deck and above the sound of the sails flapping became silent as the ropes pulled them taught. A low groan. A sudden lurch. And the ship started moving.

"Dyra!" Hamïd yelled from below and she stared at him in earnest, drawing whatever strength from his presence she could.

"Tread carefully," he said with a knowing look. Their house's motto. She had not heard it in so long but the words still filled her with the same sense of caution and solidarity in equal measure. Things will be okay as long as you take heed to make the right decision. _It will be fine, it will fine_. She repeated it like a mantra in her head before repeated the motto back to Hamïd.

She only looked ahead when he was too small for her to see, the trees of the Green Hell were nothing more than a sliver on the horizon and everything else was swallowed up by an ocean of blue.

And then she let the tears fall.

 **Dear God did this take a while! Over 11,000 words :') I hadn't intended it for it to be this long but there were certain conversations that were pre planned for the story and I felt I couldn't rush them. I nearly split this into two chapters but felt since I haven't updated in so long and this was meant to originally be only one chapter you deserved it! Rest assured the next few won't be this long! I hope you enjoyed this! Next chapter and we're in Westeros where all the faces are familiar. Thank you for bearing with me whilst I set the scene for Dyra, her story and her character.**

 **Powerof923 x**


	4. Chapter 4

**_CHAPTER 4 – DYRA KARVENDEESH_**

* * *

She was bored. So utterly and entirely bored, that she found that her usual resort of sleeping did nothing to ease the shear dullness of the journey. At one point in the chaotic aftermath of Luq's death, Dyra had found that if she used a little bit of magic, she could maintain a sleep-like state for weeks, months, sometimes even years. All she had to do was close her eyes, and she would wake up feeling drained and weak from the magic abuse, but time would have passed and she would not have had to deal with the consequences of its passing. All feeling is gone when you are asleep, even your subconscious fails to fully acknowledge it, and this numbness was an addictive drug for someone in constant pain, no matter it's physical and emotional repercussions. It was how she had missed so much news, how she had been kept so unaware of everything that had occurred. And yet now as she tried to while away the tediousness of the journey, she found that pure fear was keeping her awake. The anxiety that consumed her at the thought of arriving on Dornish soil, prevented her from sleeping at night instead choosing to leave her thrashing and writhing in sweat dampened sheets, as nightmares of her fate passed through her mind.

She'd spent her days learning and appreciating all she had missed from modern Westerosi history. Her handmaiden Sana helped with her lessons. Everyday on the table in her quarters the five of them – herself, Vyan, Sana, her other guard, Nizam and her second handmaiden Leela - would sit and pour over books, scrolls, loose pieces of parchment, anything they could use to piece together the bloodthirsty history of Westeros. It was as much a learning experience for her companions as it was for her to learn about the continent, for whilst they could inform her on everything she had missed within Sothoryos and parts of Essos, there was little they could reveal about the most western kingdoms. The more they read, the more Dyra dreaded arriving. From what she could see, Westeros was a mess. Years of over-ambition, prejudice and pride had led to a politically charged, muddied wasteland with no foreseeable future that didn't contain endless violence. Deep rooted (and often unfounded) intolerance meant that war was inevitable over the most baseless misunderstandings. And this was where she was to convince people that unity was the way forward? The Great Sun God must be laughing where he sat for gifting her this cruel trick of irony.

She'd while away the tedious days filling her mind with the Houses, their families, their bannerman, their Kingdoms. Thoughts of inter-family relationships and political alliances occupied her mind so often they sometimes blurred together. Countless hours were spent learning all she could about every major political event since Aegon Targaryen first conquered the seven kingdoms; the Dornish rebellions, the Blackfyre Rebellions, Maegyr the Cruel and has construction of the Red Keep, Baelor the Blessed and the Great Sept of Baelor, the Smiling Knight, Robert's Rebellion and its aftermath, Greyjoy's Rebellion and the most recent war – The War of the Five King's they'd named it. The more she read, the more she was dismayed; it was a poor reflection on whomever was ruling the seven kingdoms if five men could lay claim to it.

When her company had left the room, she spent the rest of the time perusing the messages from the all the emissaries in Essos, Iben and the Summer Islands, written about Westeros. It would seem Gerion had taken the time to visit the archives in the Core and gather anything and everything he could find regarding reports about his home. She particularly enjoyed the ones he himself had written in his haphazard scrawl. Gerion was a man who wrote as he spoke, foul tongue and all, and his letters were just as much audible as they were readable. Whilst other emissaries had retained their impartiality, there was an unapologetically biased vivaciousness to Gerion's letters that gave the people he was writing about life. Dyra found herself sorely tempted to believe his descriptions and anecdotes about the figures he reported, a sorry attempt to remain unbiased. She could learn all she wanted through books and texts and letters, but Gerion's reports were the first time that the people she would soon be encountering felt real and if they were anything to go by she would have to be incredibly careful to watch her emotions whilst she was there. The men and women he wrote about sounded no less than dangerously ambitious, ready to crush whoever stood in their way regardless of their innocence.

The people ruling Westeros were not the only one's who had her on edge, she was also wary about Vyan. Since it had become apparent _Liberator_ was still allowed on her person, he had refused to look her in the eye. At first she had concluded that his disapproval of her actions had lead to him to refusing to look at her. The mistrust of her that he so clearly felt hurt, but she knew it was deserved. Dyra accepted this was a consequence of her desperate actions, she just wished he would still talk to her regardless of his mistrust. Vyan was the first member of her guard she allowed herself to care for in decades. It wasn't until she saw him clenching his fists at the site of the dagger neatly tied round her waist, his eyes shutting in frustration and his shoulders sagging that he realised he wasn't so much ashamed of her as he was of himself. He blamed his carelessness and overly-trusting nature for believing that she would not attempt to mine igneonite anymore. It was a foolish thought on his part and Dyra kindly berated him for being so self-critical, but it only served to lessen his self-pity rather than eradicate it.

As for the knife, she hadn't let it out of her sight. There was something comforting about having it strapped to her waist so openly, the surety of it calming her down and lending her confidence – even if she had no one to fear on this never-ending voyage.

* * *

It was during the second week that she saw land in the distance. It appeared one morning seemingly floating above the endless blue. Spending what had felt like an eternity on the ship had given her cause to start hating the colour blue and she was dying for a respite from it. From the direction the bow was pointing she could tell they would never be docking at this new found land but the mere sight of Essos, even if it was only to sail alongside it, was a sweet respite. She had never ventured further than Sothoryos in her life; the desire for Sothoryos to remain hidden and unknown had restricted its citizens from leaving, especially those of high rank. She drank in the sight of it now. The land rose suddenly into the horizon, turning darker with vegetation as it summited before the sky began.

The possibilities. The wonders. The sights.

She thought about what the people would look like, how they dressed, how they would react to her. Was the land rich or barren? Did they live subsistence lifestyles or was trading and commerce thriving? She was broken from her reverie by the sound of heavy boots behind her. She turned to see Nizam making his way to where she leant against the side of the ship, his eyes fixed on the sight in the distance.

"Tempted?" he mused and she heard the question but did not understand it. "To run," he offered clarification and she felt herself nodding almost imperceptibly.

"I've never known anywhere else," she muttered "I always wanted to travel but then I received my prophecy." She cleared her throat, blinking rapidly before turning to look at him.

"Suddenly Westeros was a lot less enticing, but Essos never lost its appeal." She saw him looking at her with a somewhat pitying gaze and quickly turned to face forward again, she would not allow anyone to treat her in such a way. There was nothing that made her feel like a child more so than pity. She felt him shift awkwardly next to her and sighed when she realised her cold dismissal had made him feel uncomfortable rather than the silent reproach she'd intended it to be.

"I'm sorry," she murmured "I've grown so used to not speaking to any of my guard," she shook her head when she realised how aloof that made her sound. "I meant it was just a lot easier that way. I grew tired of getting attached and then people dying before me," she explained and felt Nizam exhale in relief that he was not in greater trouble.

"But for future reference, I do not handle pity well," she said her voice growing a little sterner. By no means did she sound completely devoid of humour but there was enough harshness to ensure that Nizam knew she was being serious. He looked her in the eyes.

"If it helps," he started more hesitantly than before "if you knew that the land you're so admiring was Slaver's Bay then I sincerely doubt you'd wish to see it."

 _Oh_.

Dyra's stomach sank to the floor. At first when they had set off from Zamettar, she had been so ridden with anxiety she had meticulously tracked how much time she had until she was forced off the ship and onto Westerosi soil by chartering their progress on the large table sized map in her quarters. The slow progress had turned this into a rather boring habit and she had ceased to do it when it outgrew her patience. Since then it had slipped her mind that the first thing they would most likely see from their ship was the peninsula that guarded Slaver's Bay and the morally corrupt cities of Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen. Suddenly the green hills no longer seemed like an exotic sanctuary but an ominous warning. The vegetation did not seem so lush, it seemed barren. A sickening feeling crept into her stomach and she resisted the urge to gag. The barbaric practices of slavery and human trafficking had been outlawed in Sothoryos for many centuries, but in Khersoni it had been illegal for even longer. Both herself and Luq, following his previous experiences, had dedicated their time governing, tirelessly working to abolish all illicit forms of slavery particularly illegal brothels and prostitution. It had sickened her to her core what she had seen even when it was contained on a small scale due to its unwarranted nature. She found herself unable to even comprehend the chaos, violence and oppression that must have been rampant in Slaver's Bay where slavery was not only accepted, but praised as the demographic and social ideal.

She noticed Vyan must have seen the look of shock and nostalgic despair on her face and correctly wagered it was best to leave her to her thoughts. She turned one final time to Slaver's Bay, and vowed that she would never view something as pretty until she knew of it's true nature again.

 _How ironic_ , she mused, _that something as insignificant as a name could change your entire perception_.

* * *

They had spotted it a day after she had turned her back on Slaver's Bay. The land they were sailing alongside, appeared to rise out in front of the ship before it was swallowed. At first, the large distance made it seem as if that was it and the coastline had just disappeared, dropping off to an abrupt end. Soon though she realised that it hadn't vanished, no, the land had been swallowed. Completely consumed by fog.

 _The Smoking Sea._

When it had become apparent what they were facing, an ongoing debate had ensued. The crew, tentative as they were, had been reluctant to sail through. They said the place was haunted, which had made her laugh.

"It's patrolled by Sothoryosi scouts," she had chided "it's no more haunted than home."

Still the sight of it had set her a little on edge. The temptation to heed the crew's protests and add an extra week to their journey was great. But this was something she had to do. She had to see what had become of the 'mighty' Valyrians and their empire. Animosity had run deep between the two societies before their untimely demise. It hadn't always been that way, the Valyrians were after all former Sothoryosi adventurers, that had settled in the Essosi peninsula to reap the benefits of foreign lands. After discovering they could use magic to tame and control dragon hatchlings, they thrived as a population, using the dragons to encourage trade with the Ghiscari and their former homeland. On the foundations of magic, they built a city to rival the ages and turned Valyria into the most desired place in the Known World. They had ridden high, drunk on their own power, unable to conceive a loss. Then the peninsula became too small for their ambitions.

Fuelled by a thirst for control and territory, the Valyrians had primarily invaded and conquered the Ghiscari. Then the Rhoynar, who were also quick to succumb to the dragon fire. Following this there was little left along the southern coastline that was not a part of the newly crowned 'Valyrian Empire'. And yet this still had not quenched the thirsts of the conquerors. Seeking to control all trade in the Jade and Summer Seas, they had started burning Sothoryosi ships that carried goods to the southern cities and ports, forcing Dyra's people to abandon Essos as a means of trade. Fearing that this would not satiate them, the Council at the time eradicated plans to domesticate the rainforest colloquially known as the 'Green Hell', and allow it to grow wilder and denser than ever before. They fuelled rumours of the nightmarish creatures which occupied the humid jungles, and then they evacuated Zamettar, Gorosh and Yeen. They had been right to do so. 10 years after the first few ships had been burned, the Valyrian dragonlords had tried to invade. But the sheer size and density of the Green Hell made it impossible for dragons to supersede without landing, and their vulnerable conspicuousness in the open skies had made it easy for Sothoryosi to weaken them. Eventually, bitter that the war was costing them greater prices than they were prepared to pay, the Valyrians withdrew. And the Sothoryosi, brimming in equal measure with both hatred at the dragonlords greed and wariness of their unstable hubris, closed their doors to the world and allowed time to forget that they existed. And now here she stood on the deck, journeying to Westeros to unveil the truth. And the chance to see the ruin of those that had forced them into hiding, that had spilled her people's blood was laid before her, teasing her like a great prize formed from cold justice.

Her mind had been made up long ago, before her reservations. She turned to Nizam who stood arguing with the leader of the crew.

"We go through the Smoking Sea. I have to see it." She spoke solemnly and she saw Nizam nod in understanding.

"We'll set course now. But Your Excellency, you should be aware that the smoking sea is a common place for piracy and the slave trade. Should we proceed, myself and Vyan feel it be best if you spend a majority of the time in the cabin, just for safety precautions." She felt indignation bubble within her and the exasperation to rebel against such restrictions was near overwhelming.

"I will remain on deck," she started, trying to keep her tone as even and sensible as possible "this is the smoking sea after all, whether I'm on deck or not will not make a difference until we are within 30 feet of a ship. And it will not come to that." Nizam stared at her for what felt like an eternity, as if trying to see right through her. Eventually the corner of his hard-set mouth shifted upwards ever so slightly and she watched with relief as the tension left his eyes. His shoulders had sagged with defeat.

"Vyan will not like it." He offered.

"Vyan is not in command here," she returned.

"As you wish, Your Excellency."

And that had been that. She had been allowed to stay on deck, to admire the sights, so long as she stayed near the door ready to be rushed downstairs should anything on the horizon change. Vyan's annoyance was palpable, but she was distracted by the sights and her own internal thoughts. The sights that leered out from the fog had entirely arrested her attention.

The land had been entirely split open into immeasurable numbers of narrow passages. On either side, broken and battered spires rose into the sky line testing the limits for the height with which one could build. They looked so fragile now, that Dyra fancied something as simple as a strong wind would force them to the ground. Collapsed columns lurched sideways into the ocean paths, stretching to brush the sides of ships as they passed. From these Dyra could see they were both intricately carved and decaying; white marble had been turned a dark charcoal by the fiery Doom of Valyria. Seeing so much destruction of the once proud empire, the very same that tried to invade her home, did not make her feel as she had expected. Rather than patriotic pride, all her heart could muster was shame and regret. She felt Vyan walk up behind her.

"They had everything," she breathed looking at the razed city before her eyes "and it was never enough."

"Men want what they do not have. The Ghiscari and Rhoynar gave them greater land and influence. Conquering us would have meant they controlled two continents."

"And this is the price they paid … do you think it was the God's punishing them? For reaching too high?" she mused aloud. It was something she had always considered, particularly before her theological doubts had been stirred.

"No," Vyan responded coolly "it's tempting for us to believe it. To consider ourselves superior and righteous, as if God supported our cause." He broke off for a while turning to look at the sights – or lack of – before the two of them. "This was not the work of God but of nature. In the end the Valyrians were unlucky."

They were left in silence, the cool breeze ghosting over the skin and causing the flesh to pucker. It wasn't until she involuntarily shivered that she realised how cold it was. She had thought coming here and seeing the destruction would be vaguely cathartic in its own sickening sanctimonious sense of justice but instead all she saw was a preserved tomb for thousands of people. She may have resented them and what they stood for, but that did not mean she wished to see such mindless obliteration – even that of Valyria.

"It's hard to comprehend that this is all that is left," Vyan mimicked to her left, as if the very same thoughts were running through his mind.

"Not all. As long as the Targaryens are alive, the Valyrian bloodline lives on." She muttered bitterly.

"That's just one girl," he countered.

"One girl who has used three dragons to capture both Astapor and Yunkai," Dyra warned "She'll be going to Meereen next, make no doubt about it. And she's left both cities behind in ruins. Created a power vacuum for any fanatic with money and a sword to fill. She's dangerous."

"She's freeing the slaves." This truth did not settle well with Dyra. She neither wanted nor cared to acknowledge that what Daenerys Targaryen was doing was the morally right thing to do. It was hard to swallow that someone you had little concern for, had something in common with you. She did not wish to feel any connection to the Targaryen girl at all and yet it was near impossible for her to ignore that the newly crowned 'Mother of Dragons' had pure intentions when it came to the barbaric practices of slavery. Still she could not accept that outright threatening and conquering was the most productive way to pave a new world – regardless of who was burned in the process.

"She's dangerous with a conscience and no advisors then," she countered "until there is someone there to keep her in check she will continue to make the same mistakes. Daenerys Targaryen may have the right principles, but she's still a Valyrian. And dragonlord's are not known for patience or contentment. They'll always crave more, conquering is in their blood. Like Aegon. He had Dragonstone and his family. It was more than he deserved. But he wanted an entire continent, so he took it with fire and blood."

She heard Vyan open his mouth to respond but he was cut off by the sound of shouts from behind. Her head swivelled round, hair whipping her cheeks in the wind, to see a dark shape loom to their left, far too close to be the coastline. And it was moving.

"A ship," she breathed. All at once she felt Vyan grip her arm in a hold so tight it shot a shooting pain up her arm. He wrenched her from the ship's side and half dragged her to the door that led to her quarters.

"There's no scouting flag," he mumbled eyes wide and alert, looking at anything but her. She struggled to keep pace with his long limbs, legs tripping over the other in the effort to keep upright. The crew on deck started to panic, running to different parts of the ship, pulling sails tight to try and take advantage of the climbing wind. With his free hand, Vyan grabbed the shirt of one of the crew members and yanked him towards him with a force so strong he fell.

"Tell your captain to make full haste to Volantis now. If we're taken, he won't need to fear pirates and illegal traders because I'll have already killed him!" Dyra was almost taken aback by the violence in his amber eyes; the pupil had thinned so much, he looked almost snake like, his large arms quivering with barely contained rage and fear. Before she'd even begun to register this new side to Vyan he had turned to her, his expression less angry and filled with barely contained terror.

"Go to your chambers. Lock the door. Do not look out of the window no matter the reason. Do not leave the room until I come. And whatever you do, stay silent." Then he shoved her in the direction of her chambers and turned away to bark orders at the rest of the ship, his hand on his sword hilt.

* * *

They had been docked for about 3 hours but there was little she could do. Vyan had made the decision that she should not be allowed off the boat, lest she try to escape and try to return to Sothoryos undetected. Dyra had protested adamantly, though why she could not be sure. If Vyan knew her as well as he claimed to then he would realise that she was beyond trying to escape. Having already resigned herself to her supposed fate, all the fight that had previously existed had left her. She was too weak to take on both himself, Nizam and any additional crew members he would employ to guard her whilst they were on land, let alone then be able to transport herself far away. Besides, there were very few places she could go. She could attempt to fade into obscurity and stay in one of the small communes that lined the Demon Road, but they were too easily raided by the Dothraki and the only larger cities that lay to the East and were within a couple of weeks of hard riding were those that made up Slaver's Bay. She refused to travel there. To the west, the cities had strong trading connections to Westeros, should she be rediscovered it would be far too easy for them to transport her to where they all originally intended to go.

No there really was no place for her to escape anymore.

She had tried voicing this to Vyan to allow her to at least see Volantis and the Long Bridge but her desire to go there, seemed to have made Vyan uneasy and her pleas only served to greater his determination to see her remain on the ship. He'd gone so far as to dock a mile or so from the harbour and then rowed himself and a few others the remaining distance to the docks in order to get the supplies they needed to complete the trip. Her betrayal of his trust and the recent scare of pirates within the Smoking Sea had kept him on edge to the extent that now there were no lengths he was unwilling to go to ensure her safety on the ship and her continuation to Westeros.

Dyra in her reluctance was forced to satisfy her first sighting of an Essosi city on the deck, through squinted eyes, shaded by her hands in the vain hope that that would improve her vision. From what she could see, the people of Volantis did not seem too different from those that lived in Lea, the neighbouring province to Khersoni back in Sothoryos. Large structures of wood and a sand based rock, constructed the many streets of houses, shops and public areas. It was simple, but it was clean and well-maintained. There was little for her to make out from such a distance, but sometimes she fancied that she could see the Long Bridge from a distance; it's buildings and shops making it appear like a suspended street over the river. It frustrated that this was all she may ever see of an Essosi city, she had travelled so far, the least Vyan could do was take her to the harbour.

Her concentration at soaking up all she could see was probably why she was the first to notice Vyan and the crew that had left with him returning in the small rowing boat. She turned to look at Leela who was busy stitching beads and glass gems into a fine silk skirt hemline.

"They're returning now. We shall depart soon," she spoke and turned back to the window. She heard rather than saw Leela carefully place her needlework on the table, before standing, curtseying and leaving the room to help carry the purchased food into the ship.

Dyra took one last look at the window before languidly traipsing her way to the table to admire Leela's embroidery. It was fine work indeed. The black silk itself sat tight on the hips, before immediately fanning out into a full skirt that shined in the candlelight that flooded the dim cabin like the traditional skirts of Khersoni. Silver thread had been woven through the entirety of the skirt so that it looked as if tiny glowing raindrops had been methodically placed there but it was the stitching along the hemline, meticulously shaped into a writhing serpent, that caught Dyra's attention. Leela had weaved tiny precious stones into the shape of scales along it's back so that it gleamed a menacing silver. She turned the dress over, tracing the snake with her fingers until she found it's head at the back of the skirt facing outwards, the space where it's eyes should be left clear to reveal the obsidian black material below. The snakes were of House Karvendeesh, which meant that Leela had spent all her time, stitching the exquisite material for her. She felt a lump in her throat at the thought. She had had fine clothes in her lifetime, plenty finer than this skirt – dresses, tunics and trousers dripping with jewels and so weighty she could scarcely walk in them – but no one had ever made her something so nice with no motive behind it. She had paid seamstresses, and old friends had stitched her beautiful things for her nameday but nothing like this had ever been made for her purely because someone wanted to make it. Dyra gave a bitter smile, at the realisation that possibly the kindest heart on the ship was being led into a warzone.

She was startled from her reverie by the sound of someone clearing their throat directly behind her.

"I did not realise I gave you permission to enter." She said teasingly.

"I did not realise one could pry into other people's work without permission," Vyan responded and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Besides," he continued "you left the door open."

She turned to see him standing there imposingly, his right hand clutched protectively over his sword hilt and his left holding a long package out to her. She stepped forward, eyebrow inquisitively raised and reached out to take the package from him. It was heavy, but not burdensome and she carefully placed it on the table over the skirt to open it.

"It's a sword," she said dumbly. There was nothing particularly special about it, no artistic craftsmanship, no inscriptions on the blade. Even the edges were not particularly sharp. Purposefully dulled down by a hammer. She picked it up at the rough leathered handle, worn down by use. Despite it's appearance, it was well weighted and easy to swing; it felt right to hold a sword again after so long.

"Yes. It is." Vyan finished, watching her clumsily attempt a couple of swings. Her arm already began to tire, and so to distract both him and herself from this she set the sword back down, irritated that her supposedly superior muscles were already giving out on her. She attempted to subtly stretch her arms without Vyan seeing but to no avail.

"It's a blunted sword. It can be used for training. And it's for you." She looked up at him in surprise. He had not trusted her enough to enter Volantis, but he had enough faith to think that giving her a sword was a good idea? Needless to say his actions, left her baffled. Evidently, the confusion was also obvious on her face.

"When we saw the ship in the Smoking Sea, I started to panic," Vyan moved towards her so that they were just a metre or so away "I was charged to protect you, Your Excellency, but there was a moment there where I thought should they choose to attack, I cannot hold off the entire crew for a much larger vessel." He couldn't look her in the eye, and his hands which were usually clasped tightly behind his back were now fidgeting with each other.

"Vyan … You couldn't possibly have known," she sighed "and even if they did, I'm sure you would have handled the situation far better than you give yourself cred-"

"It doesn't matter," he sighed rudely cutting her off "you know the truth as do I. Which is why you're going to begin training, starting tomorrow, on the deck."

She did not think it possible for her eyes to bulge more than they already were doing.

"You're going to train me?" she breathed out looking back and forth between Vyan and the sword that lay on the table.

"No." he admitted looking at her and for a second she felt her heart fall as the false hope crushed down on her "I hear you were once a brilliant swordsman. Good enough even to rival the Seejan Dukes and Duchesses. You will retrain yourself. I'm merely here to be your sparring dummy."

"I'm too weak, I could never last as long or be as quick or as strong as I once was." She sighed, facing the sword on the table, back to Vyan. But Dyra couldn't keep the small smile on her face at the thought of once again wielding a sword, feeling it slice the air, spinning it through her fingers as if it were an extension of her own body.

"No. You will never be that person again. The Great Sun God saw to that," Vyan supplied and with her back facing him Dyra raised an eyebrow, it was odd to hear such blasphemy spoken from a Sothoryosi person – they were a deeply religious people. "But perhaps in time and with practice you will be able to defend yourself well, amicably even. Nothing like the legends you were known for, but still able to hold your own." She heard the truth in it. She was debilitated yes, but maybe even with her condition, she could work in some way to regain her strength. It hadn't been necessary when she was kept in Dalian, no one would harm her there. But in Westeros, with the chance of the White Walkers imminently breaching the Wall, it would be crucial to be able to defend herself.

There was a strong urge to reject Vyan's proposal; the cursed part of her, the majority but not the whole that had ripped and discarded all that had been good when Luq died, wanted nothing more than to find a way back to Sothoryos and end it all. It begged her to say no and to leave. To slip away once they were on land and run back to her homeland. It could not accept any chance of hope, that there could be anything better than what she was living through. It had compounded itself into her core by years and years of conditioning and now it sprung up ready to bite down any hope of thriving in the unknown. But there was a newly growing part of Dyra; a determined, cunning streak that had blossomed when she had first started hunting for igneonite to forge weapons. And this part of her was in conjunction with the tiny remnants in her head of her conscience, albeit for entirely different reasons. Yes, it made sense, practically to regain what she could of her strength, she would need to be as good as she could possibly be to survive in Westeros, if it's current political state was anything to go by. But should it become too much, and she decided to return home without anyone knowing, it was vital that she was able to best her guards and her handmaidens in whatever they threw at her. She needed to train to survive in Westeros but also for a potential escape. The latter reason, she knew Vyan could never know, but there was enough of a solid argument for the practical point of training for this not to matter too much.

The thought of being able to wield a sword again filled her with a dizzying delirium she had not felt in years. Just to feel stronger, than she did was too enticing to refuse. If Vyan could see her face then he would have seen the most genuine, if albeit small, smile Dyra had shed in two centuries.

"Then I shall see you tomorrow. At dawn."

* * *

Everyday, for the last four and a half weeks, Dyra had awoken before the sun rose, dressed herself in leather breeches and a linen tunic – the weather growing colder the further north she travelled – and crept outside to find Vyan waiting on the deck of the ship for her a sword in each hand. There they would warm up, Vyan having her go through basic stances and exercises until her muscles were sufficiently stretched to begin the more serious training. The first two weeks, sweat had been pouring down her back by the end of the warm up and she had been barely able to stand let alone raise her sword. It had frustrated her to no end that she had been left so physically weak – wasn't the pain alone enough? Another aspect knew that a part of her had brought this upon herself. If she hadn't abused magic to the same extent in the beginning she would never be so drained now. She would finish training waging war with herself and the world, bitter that she was not capable of more and close to tearing Vyan's overly patient head off. How he remained so calm when all she wanted to do was scream, she could never fathom. And yet whenever she felt the urge to throw her sword like a knife and sink its blade into the ship's hull, all it took was one look at Vyan's calm, unemotional face to make her feel like an immature child. She supposed her overly emotional state made her appear exactly like that, but it was hard to reign in something that you had little control over and she knew Vyan understood this. He would simply ask her to repeat the motions.

In the third week, she had enough strength for them to engage in proper sparring. Her movements lacked conviction, strength and energy let alone any finesse or grace yet more often than not they were enough to parry his basic blows. Gradually as the weeks rolled by he started to incorporate harder attack strategies, highlighting where she was week and demonstrating where she was strong. Swing by swing, thrust by thrust, Dyra started to piece together a long lost part of her, something she never thought she would do again. Her movements become smoother, they took less effort. There was languid grace as they sparred and despite the energy it drained from her, she started to make sword fighting once again look effortless. Her stamina needed work, she may have regained her adeptness, but she still couldn't fight for very long at all; mere minutes at a time of intense swordplay before she needed a break. Still it was better than nothing, and there was something nice about the familiarity and routine of sparring and parrying that was oddly comforting.

On one such morning at the end of the session she had collapsed on the deck, her legs too unstable to support her anymore, her sword clattering to the floor by her side. She took a while to regain breath back into her lungs, willing to slow her heartrate down and her body to return to normal. Vyan grabbed a water skin and sat next to her, handing the satchel to her grateful hands before she gulped it down greedily. Through the railings on the other side of the deck she could see a large island rise out of the sea. _Lys_. She'd taken to tracking their progress again, now that time was short. The sight of Lys made her breath shudder, the thought of how close they were now, was hitting home. She turned to see Vyan staring at the island as well, no doubt knowing exactly where they were.

"Why did you trust me enough to do this?" she murmured softly. She saw his jaw clench and unclench as he contemplated an answer.

"Trust you enough to teach you?" he clarified and when she nodded, he sighed.

"I didn't trust you entirely. But I trusted the facts." He started and she felt her brow furrowing as she paid attention to him.

"You and I both know you can't escape prophecies," he spoke evenly looking at her feet before meeting her gaze. "I trusted you because I knew that you knew you had no other options." She swallowed, fears were always harder to hear when voiced aloud than when it was an internal whisper.

"You wouldn't stay in Westeros. And based on the stunt you pulled in the Core, you wouldn't stay in Essos either. You wanted to die and Sothoryos was the only place you could."

"But if you tried to runaway and get back there, you and I both know it would never be undetected. The minute you reached home, you'd either be sent back onto the next ship to Westeros or you'd be kept in your chambers, alone and trapped until the Council decided what to do with you."

She felt the tears well in her waterline, and leak down her cheeks. Taking a sniffling breath, Dyra acknowledged it with a simple nod, not trusting herself to speak.

"I never knew Luq," Vyan said, his words spoken slowly, each syllable voiced carefully. He knew he was crossing into dangerously emotional territory. Dyra felt the blow to her heart, like she always did when he was mentioned and she gasped, but Vyan chose to continue, knowing what he was about to say was right.

"I never knew His Excellency, but from what I heard after a hard childhood, there was nothing he valued more in life than his freedom. You never had it from the moment you became a Duchess, but he spent several years, living and breathing it. And from the stories I hear that are passed down from servant to servant in the Daleen Palace, you used to sneak off at night. Just the two of you and spend several days away from everything. You'd never do it often, and you would always check with Thilak and then later Hamïd, but it was time for the two of you to be completely free of everything but each other." Dyra could feel her heart ache at the memories as they flashed unbidden before her eyes.

 _Riding through tall, parched grass her hair billowing in the wind_

 _Cyclical waves washing over their intertwined naked bodies_

 _Late nights under the stars talking and talking for hours until their voices grew hoarse and their eyelids heavy._

 _Waking up and not knowing where she ended and Luq began_

 _Laughing_

 _Green eyes. His eyes._

She found herself nodding swiftly as tears poured out of her eyes now, leaving her ruddy cheeks and lips shining in the dawn sunlight. Her heart was lurching in her chest, seeking something to hold onto like a kite without a string and coming up empty. Vyan handed her a scrap of cotton and she took it sharply, half angry for making her relieve such painful memories and wiped her eyes furiously.

"You felt free then, but you still had the prophecy hanging over you. You were still performing your duties but you were able to go where you wanted, when you wanted" he tried to explain hurriedly, attempting to make amends for driving her to tears.

"These last two centuries you haven't been free once. And if you go back to Sothoryos you'll endure the same quasi imprisonment before being sent back here."

"We don't know when … it'll happen. It could be months or years. Until then you are as free now as you were when you would run with His Excellency. Once we land, we go wherever you choose, we do what you choose. And you'll choose what is right like you always have done. You can now go where you wish, do what you wish" she snorted at this and he quickly revised "comparatively then."

"You'll stay in Westeros because whether you acknowledge it or not, that is the best option for you. You can't die Dyra. Not the way you want to, that chance is gone. But you can spend what seems to be the final period of your life in relative freedom." She felt him shift next to her and saw his large frame stand up and offer his hand, tentatively smiling down at her.

"That's why I knew I could train you Dyra. Because I realised that deep down you knew you would never run."

* * *

It was in the fifth week that the words she had been dreading finally arrived. It had happened whilst she was asleep, the easy relationship between herself and Vyan restored had led to at least a couple of hours of rest per night. And no matter how disturbed, she would take whatever restorative sleep she could get. The nerves had been increasing in her chest ever since they had passed the Stepping Stones and seen the Dornish coastline steadily rise before them. On more than one occasion she had to excuse herself from her company in order to hurry to the back of the ship and vomit into the turbulent sea. It had only been what felt like a few hours since that first hazy grey sighting and now they were here.

"Your Excellency," Leela's gentle voice woke her "we have landed in Dorne."

There was no turning back. With a mouth that felt as if it was filled with dry ash she breathed a response.

"Of course."

"Would you like help getting dressed Your Excellency?" She paused, pondering the idea.

"No, not today."

Once she had left the room, Dyra closed her eyes and sighed. It was not quite dawn yet if the steady lilac sky out of the window gave any indication. She supposed she could not leave her company outside whilst she hid herself in her chambers, trying to waste as much time as possible.

With another reluctant sigh, she tried to blink away the tears and ignore the aching shakiness in her limbs. She stumbled across the room to the chest which she knew contained warmer clothes. Since travelling further north, the difference in temperature had become increasingly apparent and she had found herself reaching for thicker tops and longer dresses. Now though as she rooted through the wooden crate she picked out a linen shirt and a leather riding jacket which wrapped around her torso and secured at her side. Brown trousers and hard worn leather boots were hastily added before she turned to the looking glass. Four weeks of sea breeze had turned her long, black hair into a thick, greasy mess. In hindsight she supposed this would aid with the appearance of being common but for now, it's texture was too irritating to remain loose, so she roughly braided it – knots and all – down her back. By the time she had finished, narrow rays of sunlight were filling her cabin and she concluded she had wasted as much time as she could afford.

She warily opened the door and exited the room onto the main deck to find the ship's captain barking orders to his crew who ran about untying sails, cleaning rigging and bringing on barrels of food from the port below. On deck Vyan, Nizam, Leela and Sana were busy stuffing old blankets into wooden crates before sealing them shut.

It was the sight beyond the ship that truly caught her attention. The harbour with which they had finally made port, was at the mouth of a great river – the Greenblood she distantly recalled – and the small fishing village had been built around it. There were all manner of sizes of vessel in the harbour; fishing boats, trading ships, cogs, galleys, even more peculiar were the pole boats manned by strange men and women selling goods directly onto the ship's crew. Surrounding the river mouth and bordering the harbour were a haphazard collection of light grey stone houses and salt bleached wooden trading huts. There seemed to be no order to the infrastructure, everything was merely built on whatever patch of land that could be found. Nor did there seem to be any properly cobbled roads, instead cleared sand pathways swam between the arbitrary buildings. The town itself seemed to be painted in muted shades of beige, a clear lack of colour not escaping her notice. She supposed that where they were, was not a particularly rich part of Westeros, if the sights that greeted her eyes were anything to go by. There did not seem to be many people within the streets but she supposed that was due to the early hour of the day. Unable to take her eyes off her first sighting of Westeros she wandered slowly over to Nizam.

"Where have we docked?" she enquired mindlessly watching a woman in a painted green pole boat sell sacks of red powdered spice to a neighbouring galley. Nizam stopped what he was doing to bow his head and respond.

"Planky Town, Your Excellency. About three hour's hard ride from Sunspear." She hummed in thought and turned to see what Nizam was doing. He seemed to be one step ahead of her enquiry.

"We're covering any signs of wealth with whatever we can find, mostly blankets, wood etc. The less obvious the clothes, weapons, documents and money are, the better. It was Sana's idea." She nodded her approval. Though agitation had been brewing in the pit of her stomach since she had first awoken, she could not afford to seem too nervous. They may have only been four people, but they were still her subjects and appearing either weak or as if she was unprepared was no longer a luxury she could afford.

"You have done well," Dyra gestured to the scenes in front of them "from what I can see, the roads here are going to be potentially dangerous. The more subdued we are the better."

A throat cleared behind her and she turned to see Vyan.

"The Captain has spent the last few hours securing horses and a cart for the crates. He says they await us where the Southern Road meets the town gates."

"Good. We shall reward him, once we have them. At the first opportunity we ride for King's Landing." She could see Vyan hesitate behind her.

"Should we not ride to Sunspear? We are so close would it not be worth seeing what the people believe about the Night King and the long night there? I hear the Prince Oberyn Martell, was a seasoned traveller, perhaps he will be more willing to listen to us."

"Perhaps," she agreed "but King's Landing has the biggest population in Westeros. The Dornish are the furthest from the Wall and therefore the most likely to dismiss the truth. If we want superstitious people then we need to travel North. Unfortunately, they're war-torn and their leadership questioned." She'd begun pacing as she went through the plan in her head.

"No, we ride for King's Landing. For some inexplicable reason the same Tyrell's who fought with the Targaryen's and funded Renly Baratheon's claim to the throne are now, according to Gerion's letters, marrying their daughter to the King within the next few moon turns. All manner of people will be making their way to the capital to witness the wedding. We travel there and we keep a low profile. For the time being, the fewer people who know of our existence, the better our chances of surviving the roads."

Vyan nodded and shouted for the plans to be made. Within two hours, the wooden carts they had been supplied with, had been loaded with the crates and all five of them were mounting a destriere. For once Dyra was glad she had forgone Westerosi social convention and chosen to wear leather breeches; riding would have been near impossible in a heavy linen dress. They had begun to make their way painstakingly across the river, through the neighbouring Lemonwood and were now beginning to rise out of the grasslands into the arid Dornish savannahs. The late summer sun beat down on Dyra's back, making riding hard going and the friction between her legs uncomfortable. She was used to riding, but not in conditions such as this. Her maids back in Dalian had not packed linen or cotton trousers for her to take, and she regretted not instructing them as such. For now, the leather would have to do until they reached King's Landing or another merchant town where she could purchase some new clothes.

She had started the trek by leading the group but in the end had braced her horse so that she remained at the back. Even though the five of them were guising themselves as ordinary citizens, there was still an unspoken rule that she was their leader. Remaining at the back allowed her to ensure that her company were safe; it filled her with the sense of responsibility that she used to feel when she was a far better ruler. They had continued like this for two hours of hard, unsheltered riding under the sweltering sun before she first heard the noise. It started off as distant hum, brewing behind her but when she initially looked all she could see was the grasslands disappearing into the distance, the edges of long stalks warping in the heat haze, so she dismissed it and continued onwards.

The noise grew louder behind them and she turned to see what it was. There was a break in the grasslands and then she saw it, a large party of mounted guards, waggons and carriages were trundling along behind them at a sedately pace. Judging by the size of the company and the lavishness with which they and their horses were dressed, this was no lesser house. She strained her eyes through the glare of the sun, trying to make out any further clues as to who was leading the party and then she saw the flag raised on standards at the front of the mounted guard. A burning yellow thick material, flapping in the barely there breeze, and sporting a bronzed sun pierced by a spear. _Martell_. Her eyes widened and she spurred her horse to catch up with the rest of her group.

"Behind us," she gasped and they turned to stare at her inquisitively, "it's House Martell!"

* * *

 **And we are in Westeros! I hope you enjoyed this. As always thank you so much for the reviews, follows and favourites, it really means a lot! So Oberyn Martell is the first major character we shall meet. I hope you're looking forward to it!**

 **Powerof923 x**


	5. Chapter 5

_**CHAPTER 5 – JAIME LANNISTER**_

* * *

He supposed he should have been happy to have anything in placement of his stump, and despite his initial misgivings, the new hand was sinisterly beautiful, if not a little ostentatious; the cold gold moulded to fit his proportions perfectly. But as Qyburn forced the leather strap over his still raw wrist, drawing a couple of winces from him as he did so, Jaime couldn't help but feel as lifeless as his new golden hand.

 _It's too heavy, it makes me feel imbalanced._

Yes, because balance was what he really needed to focus on at the moment. Qyburn was in the process of tightening the strings on the strap to secure the new hand in place, muttering simpering praises under his breath as he did; no doubt, Jaime concluded, for Cersei's benefit. The woman in question was pacing back and forth in front of the desk, hand tightly gripping a brimming cup of red wine despite the morning hour. Her green eyes were glued to the floor, refusing to look at him as his own took turns watching her and glumly staring at his new hand. She was different since he had returned. Her hair was still gloriously long and golden but it had lost its shine and now hung limply down her waist. The skin around her bones had thinned so that her eyes appeared gaunt and her shoulders protruded. He'd been gone for two and a half years but it seemed as if Cersei had aged a decade. _Stress_ he had originally thought _it'll leave now that I've come home_ , _she'll look healthy again soon._ But four weeks on and Cersei's former strength and radiance had not improved. Instead she continued to ignore him when he was near, and drink Dornish red from that insatiable goblet.

"Work of art, really. The craftsmanship is excellent," Qyburn flattered, irritating Jaime to no end. He had no time for those that thrived purely because of their predilection for giving compliments to the right people. People like Tyrion however, who's steel tongue and rapier wit ran circles around his political opponents, now that was another skill entirely and one he admired.

"If you like it so much, you're welcome to chop off your own hand and take it," his bitter retort was sharply interceded by Cersei who chose now to be the first time she had spoken throughout this mortifying meeting.

"Don't be such an ingrate," she sullenly chided "we spent days with the goldsmith getting the details just right." He fought the urge to scoff. The only realistic detail on the hand at all was the intricately carved _fleur-de-lis_ , something he sincerely doubted Cersei had been at pains to select.

"Days?" he raised an eyebrow, watching her critical gaze glance over him quickly before turning away again and looking at the rest of the room.

"Better part of an afternoon" she amended.

"There! How does that feel?" Qyburn's chipper voice returned Jaime's attention to him and the task at hand. Sighing he moved his arm back and forth, testing the weight of the hand. It felt odd. He would never admit that he had gotten used to just a stump in place of his once glorious sword hand, but this was something else entirely. With the stump he did not feel so … false. It did not seem as if he was pretending to be someone he was no longer. Cersei and Tywin may have desired to have the golden Lannister soldier back but he had resigned himself to that person being long since dead. The hand made him self-conscious, and despite his better efforts to reign in what he thought people might perceive of this new addition, he couldn't help but wonder if they would consider him vain or just sad for trying to grasp onto his glory days.

It was awkward to manoeuvre as well. The added weight meant that he was going to have to seriously work on building up the strength in his right arm – not the easiest thing to do with a missing hand. And the fact that he could not bend the hand or change its shape also took some getting used to.

He sighed. The hand was a welcome reminder of House Lannister's (and his father's) principle motive that money could buy whatever and whomever it liked. Of course Tywin would try to buy his son and heir's reputation back with gold, it was the only way to fix hearts that he knew. And to his credit, it worked most of the time. Yet this was one of a few rare occasions that money could not fix. What was gold compared to bone, muscle and sinew. What was metal compared to flesh and blood. Tywin could not understand what he could never experience. He could never lose the best part of him, for if his mind was gone so was his life. Jaime though far from stupid, did not have Tywin or Tyrion's intellect, all he had had that was truly of significant merit was that right hand. _'No father_ ,' he thought bitterly, ' _money cannot fix this.'_ He noticed Qyburn waiting for him expectantly.

"A hook would be more practical," was all he could gruffly offer in the end. The man had done him no disservice, and instead saved the rest of his arm. He owed him some base courtesy at least for that.

"Elegant I think," Cersei praised from across the room. Qyburn stood from Jaime's side after annoyingly shaking the gold hand to test its secureness. The two of them turned to walk towards the door of the chambers leaving Jaime to ponder his new hand. It still felt cumbersome to his arm, but he continued to lift it up and down; testing the waters for basic movement. From across the room he heard Cersei and Qyburn conversing

"Thank you for your help with the other matter," his radiant sister started.

"The symptoms have abated?"

"Gone completely. I am in your debt Maester Qyburn."

"Not a Maester Your Grace but happy to help whenever I can." The man turned to leave the room, closing the door behind him. Jaime waved his new hand sarcastically as he left.

"Odd little man," he mused watching Cersei out of the corner of his eye, curious as to how she would react and what it was they had been discussing. The fact that Cersei had so willingly conversed with others and not him had left Jaime with a rousing jealously. She could afford to speak to others, but one god damn conversation with her own twin who had returned from prison was beyond her reach?

"I have grown rather fond of him. He's quite talented you know," she responded nonchalantly, waiting for him to play along and string around the subject like she always did when she tried to be cryptic. He was not in the mood.

"What symptoms?" Jaime responded trying to remain indifferent.

"Symptoms that are not your concern." Jaime could feel his jaw clench and his left hand curl around the chair arm.

"You let him touch you?" he questioned. He hadn't meant to sound so irritated at this fact but he was. Cersei had purposefully avoided him now for nearly an entire lunar cycle, despite what should have been a reunion filled with stolen kisses and starved embraces. The fact that she had spent more time with Qyburn, whom he had travelled with, was near on insult.

"You jealous?" she teased infernally, the corner of mouth quirking into a smirk as she stared up at nothing in particular, refusing to look him in the eye.

 _For show_ , he realised. The wine glass was now refilled again.

"I'm surprised. You never let Pycelle near you," internally Jaime hoped he did not sound anything like as curious as he felt. He'd always been so good at hiding his real emotions from those he would not wish to share them to, and yet somehow Cersei always seemed to read him like a novel told to children at night; simply, easily, and with minimal depth. She unnerved him when she did, and yet it was something she evidently took great pleasure in; his most private feelings unearthed to her like diamond leverage. He toyed with the tips of his new golden hand as she swayed to the chaise longue, watching the fabric of her dress whisper over her rounded hips.

 _For show_.

"You think I'd let that old lecher put his hands on me? He smells like a dead cat." It was a sarcastic laugh and yet Jaime's impatience found little mirth in it.

"I'm not sure I've ever smelled a dead cat."

"They smell like Pycelle." She quipped, refusing still to look him in the eye. Jaime could feel the fast approaching end of his patience. Unlike the rest of his family he had always had little time for verbal foreplay, choosing instead to be blunt and forthright. He tired of the two of them dancing around topics now.

"You drink more than you used to." It wasn't a question and it wasn't what he had intended to say but it was something he had noticed in particular about Cersei since his return, and whilst less pressing than other concerns it still made him wary. Her tight-lipped response indicated that she was both as equally aware and annoyed by his observation as he was.

"Yes."

"Why?" he couldn't help but ask. Kingsguard members were not prohibited from drinking, yet as Jaime had felt that a drunk guard made a poor one, he often found himself abstaining. His return had made that self-imposed rule both easier and more difficult. With a missing sword hand, he needed to be as sharp as he ever had been and yet, the ongoing burn in his stump had made it far more tempting to seek both physical and mental numbness. Cersei seemed to have chosen alcohol for the latter purpose. It was rare now he saw her without a glass in hand, resembling her late husband more than ever. She carried herself well despite the amount she must have consumed which meant it was always hard to tell when she was sober and when she wasn't. Which could only mean either she was eternally drunk, or that she had built up such a high tolerance, heavy drinking had little effect now. Jaime wasn't sure which one unnerved and disgusted him more.

"Hmm let's see," Cersei started a new hard edge to her tone, still refusing to look at him "you started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark and disappeared from the Capital, my husband died in a tragic hunting accident-

"- Must have been traumatic for you – " he cut in dryly.

"My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne, we suffered through a siege – "

"- rather a short siege –" he corrected, slowly making his way over to her.

"- rather a short siege that I didn't expect to survive and now I'm marrying my eldest son to a wicked little bitch from Highgarden while I'm supposed to marry her brother, a renowned pillow biter so … hmm" she finished lifting the glass in her hand in a mocking toast before taking another sip. Jaime moved to sit closer to her, unable to take his eyes away from her, unwilling to waste the first opportunity of close proximity that she had allowed since he came back. He had missed this sight so much; Cersei so close to him that he could count the eyelashes framing the green eyes so like his own. He afforded himself the reward of breathing in the air around her deeply, hoping to smell the familiar fragrance of lilac from the oils she used to scent her baths. He could feel the heat from her leg press into his own as he leaned closer, drawn to her.

"Father disowned me today" he spoke non-committedly, his eyes never leaving her face.

"He can't disown you, you're all he's got." He felt his jaw tighten at her negligence of their brother, the way it always did when she was cruel to him. It wore him down sometimes, feeling like the last rusted nail holding their wreck of a family together, the only member that to his knowledge everyone liked.

"You're forgetting Tyrion."

"Hmm," she dismissed "You don't really plan on staying in the Kingsguard do you?" It was the first time she had turned to look at him their entire meeting. There was that edge in her eye again. The anxiety, the restlessness, like she was almost too afraid to look at him for any extended period of time. Perhaps she was concerned as to how he would react to the question posed? He'd seen that look, when she first laid eyes on the remains of his right hand and the doubt in her expression bothered him just as much now as it did then. Couldn't she tell this was the only way they could be together? The only way he could hold onto his little remaining sanity? Did she even care? The doubt in her eyes, suggested otherwise but he refused to believe it just yet.

"Staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here in the Red Keep, with you." He murmured near her ear, in the tone he knew used to make her shiver right to her toes with pleasure. He ghosted two fingers over her knee, tantalising the skin to pucker before raising his hand to draw a lock of hair behind her ear. He watched as her hand tightened it's grip on the wineglass and her breath quickened. _Good_. Only then when he could see the reaction his propinquity had withdrawn from her, did he allow himself to succumb closer to the warmth and heady aroma radiating from her body. His lips had barely grazed the shell of her ear before he felt a shift and she stood up and the absence of her left a biting cold.

"Not now," Cersei dismissed him like some common maid. He felt his anger bubble over, finally.

"Now what. Not now? When? I've been back for weeks!" his anger growled out, his gaze turning to glare at the back of his twin and lover. And then he saw it. Perhaps he had already seen it, ever since she first witnessed his one hand. He had known and yet he had been too afraid to acknowledge it. "Something's changed," he murmured in a tone that sounded like bated breath and widened eyes.

"Everything's changed," Cersei snapped and he felt it as keenly as if she'd slapped him, "you come back after all this time, with no apologies and one hand and expect everything to be the same?" So it was the hand, at the root of all of this. His temper was too flared now though to back down from her unjustified accusations.

"What do you want me to apologise for?"

"For leaving me." He could have scoffed at the absurdity of the statement.

"You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?"

"I don't know what you wanted you weren't here. You left me. Alone." There was something odd about the way she spoke. Each sentence inflicted with the perfect amount of venom to kill. It was almost entirely too calculated to be true and not for the first time Jaime felt like a mummer's puppet being pulled in exactly the direction she wanted him to go. Cersei wanted declarations of his faith to her, she wanted him desperate. He knew this and yet he felt powerless to give her anything less than what she wanted; it was the only way she would allow him to be anywhere near her.

"Everyday I was a prisoner, I plotted my escape. Everyday! I murdered people so I could be here with you," he yelled to her retreating back praying she would listen. He needed to calm down, he could feel his anger building and he was always too rash when he saw red.

"You took too long." And he felt his heart falter blindly before jackhammering in fright. His palm and brow started to sweat profusely with fear. Struggling to swallow the knot tightening his larynx he spoke anxiously.

"I – What are you saying,"

"I'm saying you took too long." She spoke maliciously, her tongue enveloping the words cruelly, mocking him. But her eyes told a different story, he had never seen such coldness directed at him before. In that moment Cersei had never resembled his father more; the very same detached manipulation that Tywin employed on each of his children, emanating from her own face. He had been wrong before, so very wrong. It hadn't been a game, in her eyes he could see the truth. The hand disgusted her, she no longer had any need for him now. They had been separated for too long and he had been a fool to believe she would wait and anticipate his return. Perhaps that was what he had always been to her; a means to an end. When she could no longer stand to be mounted by her brute of a husband, there had been her all too willing brother to provide her with the male heirs she needed to bury her claws into the Iron Throne.

Standing there the sun illuminating her from behind, she looked like an impossible dream. He wondered if that was what she was for so many others, the Golden Lioness, the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms. Had she remained his truly? Or did her words mean he hadn't only lost her love, she'd given it someone else. The thought made the anger in him raise it's ugly head. He was about to argue when they were both interrupted by several harsh knocks on the heavy oak door.

"Come in!"

"Go away!"

There would be no more discussion, he knew as such now that she had all but effectively dismissed him. A small mouse haired maid entered the room, feet shuffling. The red tint on her cheeks indicative that she knew she wasn't entirely welcome.

"Forgive me Your Grace," of course it was as if he wasn't even in the room. It bemused him that Cersei was still referred to as Your Grace despite no longer being Queen, no doubt this was something she had ordered to keep up appearances. "You told me to come at once if there was anything important."

Cersei waved her in and turned to dismiss him but he refused to give her the satisfaction. He stalked past her, ceasing to notice her presence. _Two can play at that game, sweet sister_. The maid all but leaped out of the way with all the grace of a frog, anxious to be clear of the Kingslayer in a bad mood.

He had to get out of the Red Keep. _And go where_? The shores maybe. He did not know, nor did he care. As long as as much distance was put between him and the woman he loved as was possible.

He had been separated from his sister for near on two years, kept captive like a rat in a cage by the Stark boy. Jaime had always been a man fuelled by impulse and sentiment. After he had gotten over the initial shame of being so publicly humiliated by a boy aged five and ten, his entire being had filled with anger and desperation. He had willingly let the emotions wash over and consume him, for a man forced into a corner fights back with the might of 10. Night and night, he had soothed his waning strength with thoughts of her, waiting for him, stroking him, praising him with her body like she used to. He had to make it back to her, now more than ever. He was a Kingsguard member and his place with the King and with her. His life's meaning was to defend his King in public and his forbidden love in private.

Except he could no longer do that. His entire life had been in that right hand. He'd fought with it, he'd loved with it, hell he even pissed with it. How could he continue living now that it was gone? Tyrion would have him believe that he could retrain but it had taken decades to get to where he was, and by the time he would have attempted to fully train his non-dominant hand in such a fashion, he would be an old man barely able stand for losing his breath. The boy in him had longed to be Arthur Dayne; he remembered now with awe how the man had fought with a blade in each hand, how long it must have taken him to learn such a skill. How useless Jaime was by comparison. No wonder the man had been doubtful when the young Lannister heir had been knighted to the Kingsguard; how could one ever compare to the Morning Star?

Jaime Lannister had only ever felt truly alive on two occasions; when he was fighting or when he was fucking. He'd joked to himself privately that both situations were dicing with death, as making love to Cersei was passionate and harsh in itself; their tempers often fuelling the inferno that swept through them when they joined together, into a wildfire blaze that _burned_ him. He loved it. That pure sense that it was so wrong and yet so right. The sheer unthinkable nature of it was no doubt what thrilled him the most. He delighted in the fact that they shouldn't fuck, that he couldn't have her and yet they belonged to each other.

' _Or at least had done,'_ he thought bitterly on the way to the beaches. Everything's changed now. He had lost his hand and he had lost her. He could feel the difference between the two of them. At first he had hoped it was mere distance; some twisted game she loved to play. But she had said differently now, and he was inclined to believe her. Unbidden the image of her expression when she first saw him covered in filth and missing the best part of him came to mind. Her face had been so unreadable, and he had never desired to read another's thoughts so much. Was it fear? Fear, for his life that he had come home so wounded and sick looking. Fear, that they could have so easily been parted, for what might have been a life without the other. Anger? Anger, that someone would dare to defy their father in such a way. Anger, that anyone would think they could lay a finger on the lions of Casterly Rock.

He daren't think of the last one, but it came to him now. Disgust. Disgust that he could be so deformed. Disgust that her perfect twin was no longer her mirror image. Disgust that he had dared to return to her in a way that left him in no fit purpose for her. He couldn't fuck her like he used to, nor could he defend her and her – they're, he corrected – son anymore. The last one hurt the most of all and he had refused to believe it to be true. But then she had seemingly been so in shock she could barely speak. She did not run into his arms, she merely approached and looked between his face and the stump and back again. She'd poked it, ignoring the hiss he had emitted, and stroked the long bandages that hid the rotting flesh. And then she had fled the room and he had barely seen her since.

Brienne was wrong. She'd told him to live for revenge, but he had lived for her and now he didn't have her. All that time and effort getting from Harrenhal to King's Landing and she was gone from him, merely by the sight of him. Well the Tyrell boy could have her. Maybe if she tried to make love to Loras (as much as the thought pained him) she would come running back to him, crying like she did when she apologised and begging him to love her again. It was a fool's hope but in the darkest nights, when his heart and limbs _ached_ for her by his side, it kept him going.

In many ways it was truly ironic. He was back home, returned to the life of luxury he was accustomed to and yet a sick part of him would give anything to go back to that shit filled wooden cage in the sodden Riverlands. He may have been a prisoner under Robb Stark's 'esteemed' care but he had everything to live for then; his body was not maimed, and he still held the principle faith that somewhere the love of his life waited just as restlessly as him for the day they were reunited. He scoffed to himself, how naïve he had been. Hindsight was a bitch and Jaime Lannister would go to hell wishing that he had never felt it's sting.

* * *

 _ **DYRA KARVENDEESH**_

* * *

They had decided to follow the caravan, better to provide safety in numbers after all. Dyra had been quick to assess that a contingency that large could only be heading to the Royal wedding in King's Landing, for there could be no other reason at this time for the Martell's to leave Sunspear. This had come as a relief to them all, for now they not only had a sliver of protection from the convoy they also had a clear route, laid by those who knew the land far better than they could hope to.

The long stream of guards had proved themselves wary of them, passing the five of them with narrowed eyes and tightened hands around swords, but other than the silent threats they expelled they had done little to approach them. As she laid in her makeshift bed – a simple collection of linens and rugs on the desert floor – she looked over to see both Sana and Leela sleeping. They had been forced to share a tent in order to keep up appearances now that they were being scrutinised by Martell scouts. Vyan and Nizam took a separate tent but she knew they were not sleeping. Not fully at least, both had been insistent that they took guard whilst the rest slept

The hot, funnelled wind of the mountains a day's ride from Vaith flapped the canvas tent sides and Dyra found the noise as turbulent as her mind. She'd continued to struggle to sleep since arriving in Dorne and despite a week of hard riding this still continued. Dornish country was difficult to navigate on horseback and the going was tedious and strenuous. The inside of her thighs was rubbed raw from the riding and despite her familiarity with torrid weather, it had been a while since she had had to exert herself in it, and in her weakened state a full day's riding was difficult to say the least.

The roaring wind rattled again, trembling the tent with an even greater force, and Dyra found herself involuntarily shivering into her makeshift bed, bringing the covers up to her ears. If it hadn't been for the wind or her distracted mind maybe she would have heard the first few shouts. But as it stood she didn't, so when Vyan's loud rumbling voice eventually pierced the howling gusts, she jerked up in fright.

She grabbed Liberator from under her pillow and ran out to meet Vyan, only to be stopped by the sight of the curved broadsword about 3 inches from her throat.

"A woman?" the man spoke in a foreign accent. Her knowledge of the Common Tongue was old and decaying and his thick Dornish accent made it harder for her to grasp what he was saying yet she understood enough. The man in question was decked in thick yellow riding gear, embroidered head to toe in sun medallions – one of the Martell guards. He had a face like sun dried leather, and his eyes lined in thick black kohl, were staring at her distrustfully. When she looked around she saw many others surrounding both Vyan and Nizam on their knees. _Nine_ she counted. Both her guards looked remorseful, Nizam, who was still in the linen clothes he slept in, sported a brand new scar, dripping crimson that ran from his jaw to his left ear. Both of them were completely surrounded by guards with long malicious spears pointing at them, their own swords in the sand by their sides.

"I'm sorry," Vyan spoke bitterly but he needn't have apologised, she understood. This was not a fight that would have been wise to continue. She could not afford to lose them in such a brawl, and if the purple shadows under their eyes was anything to go by, they were in not fit condition to win.

"This is your leader?" the guard with his sword still pointing at her throat asked with a questioning eye. Dyra felt her irritation peak.

"I thought of all people, the Dornish would accommodate a female better than most." She snapped on behalf of Vyan, the sentence slow as she thought to form it carefully. No matter how hard she tried, her accent still slipped through though and she saw the unusual twang made the guards surrounding Vyan and Nizam exchange glances. Behind her she could hear the faint sound of both Sana and Leela stirring awake and she prayed they wouldn't make themselves too obviously known.

The man in front of her fixed her with a glare as hot as the suns on his clothes before conceding and lowering his sword.

"She comes with us," he announced to no one in particular, before turning and expecting her to follow.

"No!" came a shout from Nizam "I will go! She remains here."

"It is not you that my Lord is concerned about," another guard hissed, spitting in his face. "He wanted whoever was in charge and that is it."

"I will go," Dyra spoke quickly, "but you will leave your men here. They may return when I do," she tried to keep her voice even and diplomatic, but it was apparent how out of practice she was. Returning to the ruler she used to be would take time.

"We do not take orders from peasants," a third guard shouted indignantly but one quick stare from her silenced him.

"If you believed that to be true then why are you bothering with us?" she spat. Before turning to Nizam and Vyan and speaking in their own tongue "stay here, guard the others." With a nod at the guard who had held her with a sword to her throat she wiped the quickly forming sweat from her palms on her trousers and set off to follow him in the direction of Prince Doran.

They had made camp about 500 yards or so in front of her own contingency – Dyra had been at great pains to keep themselves separate but close – and so walking to the camp took little time. There were few awake as they journeyed through, approximately one guard taking watch for every five tents. Whilst a majority of the camp was quiet, as the men slept there were still the distant sounds of raucous laughter, ale tankards, and moaning. She internally cringed at the latter; drunken men she could tolerate but the whores that no doubt littered the camp left a bitter taste. Strange smells of roasted pork drafted through the night, mixed with the sour tang of burnt charcoal. On more the one occasion she nearly spluttered they passed the dying fires in roasting pits; the thick black smoke almost choking her. It would appear the Dornish liked their meat well-cooked and smoky. The closer they walked to the centre of the camp, the more there were awake and the larger the tents were, until at last a central almost pavilion like canvas structure rose. By this time those that were awake and alert had almost gathered to see the strange, foreign girl being led through the camp. No doubt they recognised her as one of the common folk that had followed them over the last few days. The guard stopped outside the tent, nodding to the two armed figures outside of it. They took one perplexed look at Dyra - who still clad in her sweaty, linen night clothesmust have been far from the sight they were expecting – before standing aside to allow the man in front of her and herself to enter.

What she had been expecting, she did not know. Coppery thick piled rugs, coated the floor, dirty with sand but still servicing to keep the heat in from the ornamental brazier in the corner. The Martell speared sun was painted on the ceiling of the huge yurt, it's gold inlaid rays cascading down the canvas walls. The yurt itself was at least six times the size of Dyra's own meagre tent back at their makeshift camp and she couldn't help but wonder how long it must take to erect and disable each day. And in the centre of it all was a large raised mattress, stuffed with feathers to the brim, covered in yellow silk and cotton and currently containing a nearly naked man and a very naked woman coiled in a steamy embrace.

She couldn't contain the shocked sound that emerged from her mouth at the sight. The man's gaze instantly switched to her, his hands never pausing from roaming the woman's exposed derriere, nor his lips leaving hers. At the sight of her there in her night clothes, he smirked and pulled away from the woman who in turn shifted her hooded gaze languidly to Dyra.

"My Lord, we found who you asked for," the guard beside her spoke easily, as if this was a common occurrence. Back in Sothoryos, this was a most indecent sight. The man on the bed leaned back onto his forearms, to watch her, completely at ease in his near state of undress.

"Ellaria, be gone my love. I will find you later." He murmured to the beautiful tanned woman at his side, gently spanking her with a mischievous glint in his eye. The woman, rose up taller than most Dyra had seen; her bronzed skin turning golden in the brazier light, thick hair shining slick with scented oils. Black rimmed eyes narrowed tantalisingly at Dyra as she took her time finding her clothes among the yurt. Dyra in turn kept her eyes glued to faces only, desperately trying not to look further south for fear of sending a scorching blush among her cheeks. This became impossible when 'Ellaria' chose to dress right in front of her, her taut breasts directly in Dyra's eyesight.

The man on the couch chuckled at her attempt to hide her scandalised expression as Ellaria left the yurt. It was only now as he stood up that Dyra took in his appearance. Dark hair on his face, shortly cropped framed a high aristocratic bone structure. The man's skin was dark from the midday sun and wrinkled from mirth. Despite his ever increasing age, one only had to glimpse his physique to see that he kept in shape. At the sight of her observing him, he languidly pushed himself up and rolled off the bed before making his way over to her. She had hoped that he would put on a tunic, but any of thought of that was quickly dispelled. The man swaggered over to her with an easy charm, the side of his mouth quirking into an amused smirk.

"This is their leader?" he said, ever the tone of surprise "I thought you would return with the taller man."

"They were most adamant my Lord." The guard responded curtly. Dyra refrained from rolling her eyes, as they talked over the top of her head.

"Prince Doran," she started and the half-naked man's smirk grew even wider.

"You think I am Prince Doran?" he inquired with a chuckle "my brother is too bedridden with gout to walk let alone journey out of Dorne." Overcoming her surprise at the blunder, she looked at him again, wracking her brain to remember House Martell more clearly. Her mind, stopped when she recalled the man's name – _Oberyn_ – in front of her. ' _Ah yes,'_ she thought, ' _the Red Viper, Doran's more roguish younger brother. He was certainly living up to his reputation so far_.'

"Prince Oberyn, forgive me," she tried again and Oberyn fixed his stare upon her. Lifting a hand to halt whatever she was about to say, he turned and perused the yurt before walking to the back of the tent.

"Do you know why you are here?" he mused, his low voice thick and heavy, his long fingers gliding rakishly over the satin sheets of his bed. Dyra wasn't entirely sure if he was being rhetorical or not, whether she should respond or not. The truth of the matter was that she knew he was being intentionally dramatic and yet she was almost too nervous to voice her own opinion. This was a powerful man, a Prince even, and she couldn't afford to start their acquaintance badly. If it meant playing along with this piece of theatre then she would do just that; she would play the unsuspecting commoner, until he divulged too much information to maintain the façade. Just what she would reveal to him yet, she was unsure of.

"I cannot think, my Prince" she stated, trying her hardest to keep her thick accent under wraps.

"You can stop trying to hide your own voice," Oberyn interrupted turning to face her. "Do you think me a fool? Your eyes alone give you away. No one here or anywhere I've travelled has eye's like that."

Dyra took a gulp to calm her breathing, but no sound came out.

"Outside of Planky Town my entourage passes two huge waggons and five people who look like no one else I have ever seen," he was at the back of the yurt now, pouring himself a goblet of red wine from a bronzed flagon. She clenched and unclenched her palms behind her back under his intense scrutiny, feeling the sweat form on the back of her neck. The air in here was too hot, too heady, too close. She couldn't think.

"The same people then not only continue to follow me for days, they make camp within close vicinity every night for near on four days. What am I to think of this?" Oberyn continued

"It is safer to travel in numbers. We were simply seeking shelter from potential thieves." Dyra reasoned, keeping her tone simple and unwavering.

"It is ironic you mention thieves, for that is exactly what you looked like," Oberyn's face darkened now, and Dyra got the unsettling feeling that it was that exact facial expression that had been the last sight for many who had fallen prey to the Red Viper's bite.

"Surely you don't –"

"So I had my guards scout out your waggons. It troubled me that you may be stealing from us, with the intention to sell it onwards. I rather like my possessions" Oberyn placed the goblet down and moved back towards Dyra now, gliding like his namesake. He lifted one warm hand and held her jaw firmly in place, forcing her eyes to meet his, waiting to see her reaction to his next sentence.

"Imagine my surprise when an hour or so ago, they return with this." He drawled before sharply turning her head around. There near the tent flap was one of the chests they had been transporting, lid forced open and contents spewed open for all to see. The initial rough spun wools they had used to cover this particular chest were on the floor, revealing a mess of gold and weapons. Her heart lurched at the thought that _Brightroar_ and Gerion's letter were in the chest. Her knowledge of Westeros was still a little ?, and nowhere near as clear as a native's but she knew that there was fierce bad blood between the Martell's and Lannister's. Oberyn let go of her chin and dismissed the guard that had brought her to the yurt with a wave of her hand.

"At first, I thought you had stolen the money from us," he began wonderingly "and then I realised it did not look like any currency I recognised. And the swords …" he trailed off, lifting one out with a sweep and testing its weight. "They're almost as light as Valyrian Steel," he murmured looking at them curiously "and yet they do not show any signs of folded steel. Curious, I've never seen anything like it."

She cleared her throat and straightened her back. She could feel the pretence of her guise, slide away as he looked at her now. He knew she wasn't the simple peasant she claimed to be and yet, if anything that left him even more in the dark as to her identity.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Oberyn questioned now, more forcefully and Dyra knew that answers would have to be given quickly.

"I am Dyra Karvendeesh," she started but Oberyn's impatience quickly caught up with him.

"And who are the weapon's for?" he near yelled. Gerion Lannister's words came back to haunt her; ' _you turn up with an army claiming to be the Lords or whatever you're called of a kingdom few in Westeros even know exists and that you're here to help them defeat the living dead, they'll think you're invaders and fight you instead.'_ She understood Oberyn had travelled in his youth, and that as a man of the world he was more likely to respond well to her claims of the White Walker's imminent return and yet a part of her still doubted him. She doubted he had journeyed far east enough to witness magic in Asshai by the Shadow, or that as a Dornishman he believed in the superstitions of the Northerners. No this was not the conversation to commit him to her cause yet. First he had to believe in her, and believe her background. But how to do that, without him asking more questions? Recognising that Oberyn may never trust her, at least not until he really knew her, Dyra decided to be ambiguous.

"The Great Fight," she responded as vaguely as she could. Dyra was well aware of the ongoing fighting in Westeros, she simply hoped that Oberyn would assume she meant something else.

"The Northerners?" he mocked "they're dead. Robb Stark and his mother were sent to their early graves not two moons passed, at a wedding no less. The whole mess, reeks of Lannister orchestration."

Well. That was news, she was unaware of. An entire army scattered whilst she had been on the journey from Sothoryos. Keeping her surprise from showing on her face, she noticed Oberyn was back to watching her again. If he intended for his blistering gaze to be unsettling, and Dyra was certain that he did, then it succeeded.

"It is not intended for the northerners," she spoke before an idea flashed through her mind and before she could retract the words they were tumbling out of her mouth, tripping over each other as they did "it is for the Wall."

"The Wall?" Oberyn said in rightful disbelief "a Great Fight at the Wall?" she could see the comical scepticism lace his gravelly voice. "I was unaware that the men of the night's watch had –" he stopped short and took a pause.

Dyra waited with baited breath to here his assessment.

"There have been rumours," he said. And she could see now, that he no longer addressed her, this time he mused to himself. "emissaries from Dragonstone, sent northward on behalf of Stannis Baratheon … and the Red Woman from eastern Essos." He turned to her then.

"You're not here for the Wall, you're here for Stannis Baratheon. Did the woman summon you?" Oberyn stalked past her then dropping the sword with a clatter to the floor. With an almost childish jump, he climbed on top of the bed and lay back against the embroidered cushions, smirking at her again.

"Woman?"

"The Red Priestess. She is from Asshai I hear. It's the only place I can think you are from. They say that the people of Asshai are so pale because they are trapped in eternal darkness. I doubt that's true, but you are almost whiter than milk. And unlike any person I've ever seen." Dyra decided that telling him that she was usually a much darker shade but that her ill health and years of being bedridden were what had given her this unhealthy palour, was not the best of ideas. She considered the possibility of confirming his suspicions. If she remained on his good side, maybe she could trust Oberyn in time, or maybe she wouldn't even need to reveal the truth. She could convince him of the Great War by herself. She could certainly perform a little magic and his lack of knowledge about the people of Asshai, lent her a golden opportunity to dispel any ill feeling between her small group and the Martell's. She was unaware of any ill will particularly between Stannis Baratheon and Oberyn Martell as well. Whilst she had no doubt he did not hold any love for the Baratheon's, she would wager her entire wealth that his hatred for the Lannister's and Targaryen's overruled his lack of love for the Lord of Dragonstone.

Was it worth it? Which was worse; a believable lie or an unbelievable truth? She gambled that the latter in the short run would land her in chains. If Oberyn didn't believe the first thing she told him, he'd immediately assume the worst of her for lying. ' _Besides,'_ she eased her guilty conscience, _'it would seem Westeros was built on lies. What is one more?'_

"The Priestess summoned me," she answered quickly holding his gaze "Stannis hopes to unite the North and the Night's Watch to back him following the death of Robb Stark. The weapons are to replace the losses from the previous fighting." It was an elaborated lie. Dyra did hope to arm the men of the north and the Night's Watch, but not to fight for Stannis Baratheon. _Lies mixed with the truth are always the most convincing_.

The silence that emanated from Oberyn was deafening. For what felt like minutes the only sound that possessed the yurt was the crackling of the dying fire in the brazier. Oberyn turned his head in thought, and the firelight cast long, reaching shadows across his face. For a brief second, the darkness sunk his cheeks and hollowed his eye sockets and Dyra fancied she was watching a living, breathing skull. She shivered involuntarily. Eventually Oberyn's shoulders sagged as if the air was being sucked from his lungs alongside his own resignation.

"There will never be peace with a Lannister on the throne. Especially not a bastard one," he spat in measured breaths. "I dislike Stannis but I loathe the Lannister's more. I will offer you my protection until King's Landing. You are to be my cupbearer and you will attend me in the evenings to avoid suspicion. If anyone questions you, you are to send them to me. And once we are in King's Landing, you will not speak a word of what has transpired here; not this conversation, not my protection, nothing. I will not be implicated in matters that do not concern me. Go back on this and I will know exactly where the rumours will have started. You will lose your head faster than fire burns, Stannis and his Red bitch be damned."

Her breath left her lungs before she even realised she had been holding it. This was more than she could have hoped for since they'd first spied the Martell convoy. The fact that in no small part, the usually impartial Martell's were leaving their neutrality behind to help what they thought was one of the sides in the war, was entirely beyond her. Maybe she would not have had the same level of luck if it had been Prince Doran that they had met, but his hot-headed younger brother? There was someone just reckless enough to take a chance. Still she needed to be certain of his motives for helping them, in time she could see just how far this help extended but for now it was all she needed.

"Why?"

"Because a chance at a loss of power for Tywin Lannister gives me more joy than a thousand climaxes," came the blunt response and she could feel her face curving into a smile at that. Oberyn's expression mirrored her own.

"So you are not completely devoid of humour," he remarked "good. I hate a bore."

She didn't risk telling him it had been years since she properly laughed. After gesturing for her to come closer, she walked warily towards the huge mattress before taking a precautionary seat on the edge.

"What will you do when we get to King's Landing." He mused bringing his arms behind his head and studying her profile. She thought on her feet quickly.

"We meet an envoy from the Night's Watch, who will lead us north. He's in the capital trying to recruit for the Wall." He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"So you don't plan on staying in the capital?" She gulped

"Only as long as the man of the Night's Watch is there," she coolly responded. Oberyn nodded and stood, heading towards the goblet of wine he had placed at the back of the room. Draining it in several strong swigs, he placed it down before allowing his hands to move towards the laces of his linen breeches. Dyra turned to the side, trying to give him some semblance of privacy at the sound of clothing dropping to the floor. She heard a chuckle behind her, presumably Oberyn mocking her supposed innocence. How to tell him it was less a fear of exposed flesh and more cultural differences. She'd lain with a man plenty of times before.

"You'll have to get used to nakedness if you are to be my cupbearer," he joked, no doubt not missing the way she shivered at the thought of serving him.

"I will respect your privacy, if you respect mine Dyra," he said, his tongue curling around the r in her name and she turned to look at him. "This is fair, no?" It should have been comical, there the Prince of Dorne stood, completely naked, skin sheening with sweat from the heat and yet his face was perhaps the most serious she had seen it yet. It was only then that she realised that either she was no longer as good at lying as she had previously thought, or Oberyn could see the truth better than anyone she had known. And he didn't believe her story at all. At the very least he had decided she was not his enemy, and she was no friend of the Lannister's. _'Thank the Lord he had not seen Brightroar,'_ she thought, _'my head would be rolling across the floor and then Oberyn would have been in for a nasty shock.'_ He would not reveal anything more to her, nor aid her in any additional way until she told him the truth. She could expect nothing less than that until then. For now, it was more than enough. She wondered if he suspected just how important she was back home, if he could sense the comicalness in making her serve _him_ , a second son.

"Go Dyra," he dismissed, "bring your group to my camp and have them make base here. Tell the guards outside to send for Ellaria." And with that he turned and went back to his red wine. Dyra fled the tent with the speed of a striking snake, hurrying back through the camp towards her own people. Even at this late hour, there were the distinct sound of people awake; talking, drinking, laughing. If anything it made her run faster, desperate to be back in the small cocoon of comfort that Vyan, Nizam, Sana and Leela provided.

She returned to see the same Martell guards still standing over Vyan and Nizam, except now her handmaidens were pacing anxiously outside, awaiting either her return or the return of the guard who took her to Oberyn. At the sound of her approaching, all backs stiffened awaiting her response. She noticed the flood of relief that coated the faces of her group and she sent them a small reassuring nod before turning to the guards.

"We are to join your group as Prince Oberyn's guests," she saw the slightly puzzled glances they exchanged. What would a Prince of Dorne want to do with a group of commoners? Nevertheless, they were faithful to House Martell and they promptly marched back towards their own camps, no doubt to find either their beds or (from some of the sounds she had heard throughout the camp) the arms of a woman.

It was only when they were safely out of earshot that she turned back to her group, most particularly Vyan and Nizam's embarrassed expressions.

"It would seem a great deal of explaining needs to be done."

* * *

It had just over a moon's turn since she had first encountered Prince Oberyn, and the encounter had so far proven to be a fruitful one. Dyra had grown to enjoy the Prince' company; his more exuberant personality complementing the perpetual staidness that she had maintained for too long now. If anything, his relish of life's luxuries had served to make Dyra infinitesimally less cold and private. Whilst no one that knew her would ever exactly call her 'fun' now, they could at least see positive changes. Dyra was less resigned when she awoke in the morning. Rather than the sad expression she usually wore, both Vyan and Nizam noted she now settled for a blank one instead. She was still far from how she should have been, but they both agreed that they'd settle for no expression rather than perpetual sorrow any time.

For her part, Dyra felt that Oberyn reminded her of Hamïd, whom she missed more and more the longer they were apart. Whilst her home and her somewhat unconventional family were far away, she would have to settle for the arid heat of Dorne and it's Prince. Oberyn himself was an older looking Hamïd, stripped of all rules of decorum and most senses of duty. They shared the same love for life and infectious charisma, yet whilst Hamïd knew that he must maintain a proper image, Oberyn was free from such constraints and lived life as such. Both Leela and Sana had agreed that perhaps Hamïd would have made the same minute changes in Dyra, that Oberyn had achieved, had he not been so conscious of hurting her. The need to walk on eggshells around her, had only made the change in their comfortable relationship more obvious, and instead his caution merely reminded her of Luq's death and the mental flagellation she underwent almost ritualistically. Oberyn however did not know the past; he was the first person Dyra had ever encountered who treated her as if nothing bad had ever happened. This was freeing in a way, it was nice to talk to someone so simply and without the stiffness of social courtesies or knowledge of her condition. It didn't just make her feel like the old Dyra Karvendeesh, it made her feel like Dyra Tawari, the innocent girl she was born as before she became one of the infamous Karvendeesh's. Just how much Oberyn could guess she didn't know, but she was aware that he knew something bad had happened to her, it was plain and simple to see in the way he would sometimes furrow his brow and narrow his gaze at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

The further north they travelled, the more Dyra missed the climate of Khersoni. The aptly named Stormlands – despite the late summer heat – were too wet for her and the drizzling rain only served to make her miserable. Ellaria had told her that it wasn't necessarily this wet further north, that in fact the Crownlands were usually quite warm and dry. They couldn't get there fast enough. On the days when the rain thundered down, the going via horseback was hard and miserable and Dyra would find herself wishing that Westeros had a conveyor like Sothoryos. Travel would be so much faster. She'd spend the days shivering despite the warm air, for once wet, even the slightest of breezes created a chill that went to the core, and Dyra – unaccustomed to the rain that she was – felt every single gust of air. She'd spend her evenings desperately trying to dry herself off in her tent with odd scraps of linen before changing and going to serve Prince Oberyn as his infernal cup bearer.

The rain also made it difficult to train. Whilst both Vyan and herself still made an effort to get up even earlier – most usually before dawn – to train her with the dulled practice sword, the ground was soft underfoot and she found herself often sinking or slipping amongst the mud. The long days riding and late nights serving Oberyn made her dreary as well, so whilst her skill was slowly returning, her exhaustion prevented the stamina growth she so desperately aimed for.

Whilst the Martell guards had grown used to the five of them, they still felt a little at odds. The perceivably strange appearance of the Sothoryosi's, created a sense of unease that was difficult to overcome. However, as they approached the Crownlands, she'd come back to her tent at the end of a long night to find Vyan and Nizam still missing, only to hear them semi stumbling back to their own tents later, laughing heartily, merry on Dornish wine that some of the Martell guards had begun to share with them. From the slow Dornish twinge that began to colour their pronunciation of the Common Tongue, she guessed that they were slowly beginning to break down the barriers between the two continents. The task was far harder for both Leela and Sana, as the only women really among the caravan were whores that had followed the sign of the speared sun in the hopes of making enough money to be able to live off for months. This changed however, once the Martell convoy had been joined by other Dornish noble houses, particularly those from House Dayne of Starfall, House Fowler of Skyreach and House Yronwood of Yronwood, as there were additional handmaidens serving the Lords and Ladies that Leela and Sana could integrate with. The sight of the whores greatly distressed Dyra, who had worked so hard in Dalian to eradicate brothels and prostitution. She knew that where she was going they would both be in abundance and that she'd have to get used to the sight. As much as she may wish to help them, this was not her kingdom to govern, and any indication that she did not agree with Westerosi custom would likely come and bite her later on.

Dyra found herself too busy to really interact with many people, nor did she care to; between, training, riding and serving Oberyn there was little time to be socialising. Over the course of a few weeks they'd even sometimes taken to riding together during the day, conversing over this and that. It had only taken one week for Oberyn to confirm his suspicion she was no priestess like the Red Woman. A few quickfire questions later and he had ascertained the knowledge that Vyan, Nizam, Leela and Sana were actually her personal guards and handmaidens rather than her travelling companions and equals. He'd then queried why she didn't allow one of them to be her cupbearer.

"I had a debt to you, that needed to be fulfilled," she had responded, "you asked for me and I have served."

"I demanded you," he had joked and Dyra almost smiled.

"Yes, I suppose you did." And they had fallen silent. A moment later he had spoken up again.

"It was not just to spy on me then?" he teased. She conceded a small crinkling of her lips at that, which made Oberyn smile wider.

"That certainly helped the decision."

Indeed, as his cupbearer she had been privy to many things. Some of them, like Oberyn and Ellaria in rather intimate positions, she wished she could eradicate from her memory for a lifetime, much to their eternal amusement. Others, like the evening meals that Oberyn hosted for House Martell's bannermen were far more useful. Seeing the easy grace that Oberyn dined with the other Dornish Lords, led to her understanding the devout loyalty they had for their liege Lords. House Dayne and House Fowler in particular, were fiercely protective of House Martell. House Yronwood when they joined later on, had been decidedly less so. When she'd questioned Oberyn about this later that evening, he answered after a minute's pause

"It is hard for the house that historically used to rule Dorne, to concede to another House," he had acknowledged and then his eyes had gained a wicked smirk that set her on edge "that and I slept with Lord Edgar's paramour when I was a boy. Lord Anders Yronwood is his grandson." Dyra blanched at that.

"Why? Why would you do that," she questioned appalled that he would have the courage.

"She wanted to sleep with me, and I wanted to sleep with her," he said as if he was explaining how grass grows "Lord Edgars challenged me to a duel for first blood. I won, but unfortunately his wound festered and he died a few weeks later. So Doran exiled me for several years and I got to travel the world."

' _Of course,'_ Dyra thought, _'the Westerosi would think the best way to settle disputes was by the clang of swords.'_ Then something else had hit her.

"Festered or poisoned?" She had narrowed her eyes at him.

"Festered of course," he responded in a look she couldn't discern as mocking or serious. It was moments like this that she was reminded not only of how tame her own homeland was, but how dangerous these people, particularly hot-headed ones like Oberyn Martell were. She had quickly dropped the subject and moved to pour him more red wine.

Now as they rode, they were less than a day's ride from King's Landing. She had noted that Ellaria had been right, as they left of the more chaotic weather in the Stormlands, the air had warmed again yet the lush greenery that had been ubiquitous in the Stormlands remained. She had started to almost enjoy riding through the King's Wood, which reminded her of the forests that grew in Lea back in Sothoryos. They were vibrant, practically buzzing with wildlife, and golden spotlights of sun filtered through the sparse canopy overhead. It was on this last day that she once again heard the thunder of hooves riding to catch up with her and looked over her shoulder beyond Vyan and Nizam to see Oberyn riding towards her. Vyan and Nizam respectfully dropped back several metres to offer them privacy.

"Good morning, my Prince," she greeted, keeping up appearances now they were in the open. He smiled.

"Your accent improves," he grinned wildly, "you're going to need that where we're going." Dyra was unsure how to respond to such a comment so simply sufficed with a grim nod. Whilst she was happy that her accent was slowly losing its uncommon Sothoryosi tone, she knew that she needed to be careful not to pick up too much of a Dornish lilt, her voice needed to remain as neutral as possible. This was nearly impossible to someone who had only ever been surrounded by the Dornish.

"Where are you meeting this Night's Watchman?" Oberyn queried looking ahead at the road disappearing through the trees. Dyra's blood froze and she desperately tried to think of any place in King's Landing that she could remember.

"Near the Sept of Baelor," she responded as quickly as possible wincing as she did.

" _Near_ the Sept of Baelor?" Oberyn mused "How very vague. Difficult to find someone you do not know in such a huge area." The sarcasm practically dripped off his tongue and Dyra braced herself for what was coming next. Would he decide to make her squirm or would he cut straight to the point. Maintaining her provisional lie had become harder and harder as Oberyn got to know her more. The façade had been made up on the spot, as she was unprepared to be meeting him, and over time the holes in her story had become increasingly evident.

"That may be, but at least I know to be looking for a man in all black. I am told few outside of the Night's Watch dress as such." She said refusing to make eye contact despite knowing Oberyn stared at her, watching her expressions like a viper.

"Fuck lying Dyra, it doesn't become you." He whispered, and her head whipped round blindingly, surprised he would be so blunt. She couldn't make out his expression; was he angry or sad? She hoped such a look would never be cast by him on her again, Oberyn had a face made for mischievous half-smirks, not taut lips and knitted brows.

"I'm sorry," it could have been a beg but it wasn't and he knew it. She truly was apologetic, but that didn't mean she regretted what she'd said.

"If you truly are, you will tell me the truth, no?" he questioned "what will you really do now? Why are you here?"

"I need to speak with the nobility," she started choosing her words carefully "they must know about the danger they are in."

"Danger? There's a war going on, don't you think they already know the danger they and their people are in."

"It's not about this war. It is about the one to come. The one that will come when winter is here."

Oberyn frowned at that. "You almost sound like a Stark. A risky thing to emulate right now."

"I'm not trying to sound like a Stark. I'm speaking the truth!" she cried indignantly before realising she was getting nowhere. And then she remembered something in passing that she had read, and the boy Will's desperate expression. _They're fleeing_ Gerion had said. If so many wildlings were passing through the Wall and so many rangers were deserting, knowing it meant certain death then surely the Night's Watch would have an indication. The Lord Commander might have done something about it.

"Has your brother received word from the Wall in any recent time?" she enquired and saw Oberyn was slightly thrown by the change in conversation.

"But of course, they send a letter every year asking for men." He fingered the closely cropped stubble on his chin in thought. "Doran mentioned they had become more relentless though. The Lord Commander recently died. They were asking for help more frequently and more urgently. He wouldn't show me the letters though. Why?"

"Because the Night's Watch are on the verge of being swamped by the Others with no known way of how to defeat them." She said bluntly, ripping the wound open in one foul swoop. She watched his facial expression, saw the brows furrow together in confusion.

"The Others?" there was the disbelief she expected "you mean the walkers beyond the wall?" If he thought she was strange beforehand, he looked as if she was stark raving mad now. Under any other circumstances she would have understood his revulsion but now it made her frustrated. If she couldn't get Oberyn to understand then how would she get the other Lords and Ladies to.

"Yes. The living dead."

He laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. And he probably would have continued to do so, if he had not noticed the expression on her face, for something about her mood made him stop. Perhaps it was that in all the weeks he had known the sombre girl, she had never looked more serious or more disheartened.

"You are being serious?"

"Wildlings and rangers alike are fleeing. There have been numerous reports of them sighting White Walkers. This has been the longest summer in known memory, which means an even longer winter is coming."

"Dyra this isn't a funny joke."

"I'm not joking Oberyn. The White Walkers never died. They were merely sent back into retreation by Azor Ahai. Why do you think a Bran the Builder constructed such a huge Wall if they were truly dead?"

"Wildlings?" Oberyn said looking at her as if it was obvious.

"A 700 ft tall wall of ice was needed to keep out tribal people?" she retorted and saw him falter at that. Oberyn went silent for a long while, clearly thinking over everything she had said. She watched him waiting to see how he would respond.

"So you're not going to Stannis Baratheon," he eventually sighed.

"I am. But I am also going to you, and to the Lannister's, the Arryn's, The Tyrell's and whoever holds the North. We all need each other."

"You would side with Lannister's?" he nearly shouted rounding on her and she saw several of the guards around her nearly falter in their step, tripping over themselves to glare at her and reach for the hilt of their swords.

"Of course not!" She shouted with just as much force before lowering her tone. "I side with the living." She saw him relax at this, settling back down into the saddle before another idea seemed to strike him.

"How does this concern you?" he muttered so the guards would not hear him, his previous outburst having alerted them to their private conversation. "You are not from Westeros, why do you care whether we live or die?"

"Because no sea will stop them. It may hold them off for a while, but not forever. And then by the time they reach my people they will have an army the size of two continents. We cannot hold that off."

"Two continents?" and Dyra realised she'd let just another thing about her slip. "Where are you from Dyra, the truth again please."

"The truth?" she tussled more to herself than for his benefit deciding that at this rate caution was best being thrown to the wind. She needed Oberyn on her side, it might have been just one person but it would make all the difference in the world; Oberyn was noble and Westerosi-born and that seemingly mattered here. He already knew so much, if he was going to help her speak to the power hungry in the Red Keep then she would need his aid.

"My name is Dyra of the House Karvendeesh. I am the Duchess of Khersoni, the main eastern province of Sothoryos." It sounded so funny coming from her lips. She'd not said it aloud in so long – she had never had a need to, everyone knew who she was beforehand. _'I better get used to it'_ , she thought _'I'm going to have to say it more often now.'_ None of this amusement was anything compared to the shock on Oberyn's face.

"I have heard of Sothoryos from my time in Meereen but it is widely known to be a wild, plague-ridden jungle. No one goes there."

"We maintain that façade as a defence mechanism to protect us from invaders after the Valyrian conquests in Essos. It's a testimony to your extensive travels that you even know of our existence. In actual fact, Sothoryos is a rather developed nation, divided into 7 provinces and ruled by 14 Dukes and Duchesses."

Oberyn balked and Dyra let a mild chuckle through. It was not everyday she supposed that news of an entire continent was learned. She watched with muted humour as his mouth opened and closed several times, letting the huge influx of information sink into his system. When he eventually could form words again however she was disappointed.

"Why would you lie again to me Dyra?"

"I'm not lying Oberyn, not this time."

"No, my Prince?" he seemingly joked despite the circumstances.

"I am not your lesser," She responded smoothly "and we are friends are we not?"

"Seven Hells I think not!" Oberyn responded angrily "I don't know whether to throw you in the mad house or keep you as my fool."

"Neither will be necessary because you haven't said whether you believe me or not!"

"I can't!" he near shouted again. They stopped riding and allowed the rest of the convoy to pass them by "how can you ask me to believe something so impossible? And why are you only telling me now?" She knew what it meant. Some part of him did believe her, otherwise he would have cast her aside. He'd been so specific; _'I can't'_. It's not necessarily that he didn't believe her, it was more that he couldn't bring himself to. And she understood, she had given him two impossible truths within the space of 5 minutes, it was normal and expected for him to reject one of them. What mattered was that she had at least enough of his attention to consider that Sothoryos was a developed nation and that the White Walkers were set to march south of the Wall. Both needed to be believed, she just needed to persuade him.

"If I told you that night in the yurt when we first met would you have believed me then?" she said quietly "you didn't know me that night. You know me more now, you know I don't lie unless necessary, you know I have no time for jokes and that my patience is thin. You know I would never construct this elusive fabrication unless it was true. I'm begging you Oberyn, to believe me." His eyes lost some of the anger and she could see his shoulders slump ever so slightly. It was not total resignation, but it was a meagre sight of acknowledgement.

"What are you asking of me?" Her heart soared with hope for a moment but the slight mocking tone in his eye made her well aware that he was more humouring her than actually convinced. She tried to ignore it for the time being.

"I'm asking you to let me be your cupbearer for a little while longer. And then when the time if right, I will present myself to court. And we shall see how it goes." His back stiffened again and she wondered what it was she had said that had caused such a response.

"You want me to work with Lannister's?" So it was a sudden realisation of his that had elicited such a response, not what she'd said but it frightened her none the less. There was a storm brewing in Oberyn's brown eyes that she had never witnessed on him before. He had been everything from cold and elusive, to jovial and mischievous with her, but he had never looked at her with such disgust. It was in that moment that she knew today was not the day that Oberyn would be fully persuaded. Perhaps in time, but she had overstepped her boundaries and asked too much of him and this was her punishment. The least she could do now was try to ameliorate the damage her wayward tongue had caused in it's desperate attempt to reveal the truth.

"I want Westeros to work as one unit. But yes, in short that would need you to work with the Lannister's."

"I won't do it. I'd rather be dead." The stone in her stomach dropped like a lead weight through the floor. How could she make him see that it was necessary for the benefit of Westeros and beyond that they all worked together? Oberyn had been her first hurdle, she had hoped that as a man of the world he would be more pliant, more likely to believe her and agree with her. She had foolishly not comprehended the shear depth of his temper or his bitter resolve. The Westerosi were so unlike the leaders she knew back home; they ruled with their hearts and emotions whilst people like Jola and Hamïd ruled with their head. They had been trained to be like that, to separate feeling from truth for the good of the realm. But war had set prejudices too deep in Westeros for the same to ever occur. Society did not mould them like it did back home and conflict made it impossible for enemies to reconcile. She was desperate now.

"If you don't then you will be."

"That is fine by me, I'd rather die by the hand of your 'living dead'. I behaved once on my brother's request. I stood there silently as I watched the man who killed my brother in law marry the daughter of the man who killed my sister. And every second of that wedding my fingers itched to rip out their throats, to slip something into their drinks. I have not slept one restful night's sleep since Elia died. Every night I lie awake, looking at the stars out of the window, wondering if she's up there shining down and I remember. Every night. Do you know what it's like to be constantly reminded that someone you love was murdered in the most brutal way?"

' _Yes,'_ she wanted to scream _'I know the feeling so well, I live with it every day too.'_ But she couldn't say that. Not now. It was not her turn to speak and Oberyn was already angry with her. A part of her also knew that to condemn him for such feelings would be hypocritical; if it came down to siding with her lover's killers for the good of the realm she was unsure whether she could do it. A part of Dyra hoped that she would make the right choice, and maybe her former self would have but the everlasting throb by her ribcage was a reminder that she was no longer that person and she didn't have such faith in her current self.

"You are not my brother. What you ask of me is impossible, I will never fight alongside the man who ordered the rape and murder of my sister, my niece and my nephew. I will not fight alongside the Kingsguard who stabbed his own king in the back like a coward. I will not fight alongside the twins who fathered the spawn whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne." She almost stopped riding she was so stunned. It should have occurred to her that Gerion would never mention these, they were his family after all. She'd read of the sheer brutality that House Lannister had inflicted during the Tarbeck-Reyne Rebellion but never had she seen it's impacts first hand. Oberyn was distraught as he spit out his list of condemnations as if it was a litany for his own vengeance.

"The White Walkers will do worse to you and to everyone if you cannot work together. At the very least this brings some form of unity to Westeros!"

"And that is why your cause is lost before you've even started. You think it is easy to erase 300 years of history? Westeros can never be united. Not now, not ever" She could have screamed from the stubbornness that permeated from him. She could see it, whatever metaphorical walls they had breached during the course of their journey together were firmly closed to her now and she could have no hope of breaching them again, not for a while. It hurt that this had come so soon after she exposed herself in some way to Oberyn, but hindsight – ever too late to really help - made her see that she could have expected no less. She tried to call his bluff one final time.

"Then why haven't you sent me away."

"Because you're entertainment at the very least and a rebellious upstart at best. If I'm going to endure the place where my family were murdered, then I might as well have some sort of fun." And that was it. So she was just to be an effective court jester to him. She knew now that she would not breach him for several days despite the proximity they would be maintaining. No doubt Ellaria would soon hear of this as well and she would keep her distance. At the first hurdle she had failed, and she would have to tell her guards and handmaidens as such for surely they would observe the difference between her easy relationship with Oberyn and the change in her manner. Whilst she was busy feeling dismayed with the hindrance to her progress she noticed Oberyn spurring the side of his horse and galloping into the distance. He must have felt her eyes on him because not five feet away from her he shouted back.

"Remain my cupbearer and good luck with the Court speech. It's going to fall on deaf ears. And when it does, come share a glass of wine with me and wallow at the sorry state of my home." This was the true Oberyn she realised, the one that perhaps only Ellaria knew. Of course he was a charming rogue, enthralling all who met him, but in the past five minutes she had seen more of the hidden side of Oberyn Martell than she had ever hoped to see. And what she saw and heard scared her.

Her mind drifted back to Gerion's letters as the woods started to clear up. He had been so amiable and larger than life, and whilst his letters had admitted that his brother Tywin was rather stern and cold, he had been most commending of his nephews in particular. Perhaps absence does make the heart grow fonder, she mused. Or maybe he doesn't know the kind of people they have become.

 _The father who sanctioned the slaughter of children,_

 _The son who betrayed his King_

 _The daughter who cuckolded her husband,_

 _And the drunken, lascivious imp._

What a mess of a family. In a way the callousness of it reminded her of her first sighting of Slaver's Bay. The Lannister's were renowned for being fair of face - Gerion had certainly attested to that - and when she had first sighted Slaver's Bay she had thought it beautiful. And yet hearing the truth, had violently twisted her perception of them both. There was some part of Gerion as well that could not have entirely been good; the man had abandoned his family and, she had later learned, his daughter to explore the world. He had chosen not to return when he could and kept them in the dark, allowing them to believe him dead.

Some people are never what they seem she realised bitterly and made a mental note to harden herself when dealing with the Lannister's. No good could come of people like that.

She was so absorbed in these thoughts she didn't see the sight of buildings, walls and towers seeping over the hills in the dawn light, before her. A monstrous red brick fort it the rear of it all - _King's Landing_.

* * *

 **This took two weeks to write and is 14,000 words. I really hope you enjoy. I've been travelling in New Zealand and Australia for my degree which left little time to write hence the delay. No matter I have returned and hope to be writing the next chapter soon. Thank you for reading and I really hope you enjoyed this! Have a nice day,**

 **Powerof923 x**


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